Manny Ruiz, 53, spends 90% of his waking hours hunched over a workbench in his converted garage shop, scrubbing corrosion off 1960s Evinrudes and patching cracked carburetors for the Florida panhandle’s small fleet of weekend fishermen. He hasn’t voluntarily attended a community event in 11 years, not since his wife loaded their silver Honda Civic with her clothes and the good stoneware dinner plates and drove north without a note. The only reason he showed up to the fire department’s annual chili cookoff was his 72-year-old next door neighbor, Margot, threatened to stop leaving him her homemade pecan pralines if he didn’t enter the brisket chili he only makes for himself on Christmas. He showed up 20 minutes late, chili pot in one hand, work boots still caked with bay mud and grease, planning to drop the pot off, grab a root beer, and bolt before anyone could corner him into small talk about the weather or his “sad little bachelor life.”
The cooler by the picnic tables was stacked high with orange soda and cheap light beer, and when he reached for the last cold can of Barq’s, another hand closed around it at the exact same time. His knuckles brushed hers—calloused, a faint scratch running across the back of her index finger, like she’d been swiped by a feral cat. He pulled his hand back fast, ready to grumble that he saw it first, and looked up. She was grinning, wearing a faded county animal control hoodie, jeans dotted with mud at the cuffs, a thin silver hoop earring glinting in her left ear. “Truce,” she said, nodding at the dented chili pot in his other hand. “I’ll let you have it if you give me a sample of that chili. I’ve been sampling for an hour and all I’ve gotten is three batches that taste like straight cumin and one that had a weirdly sweet kick I’m pretty sure was from bourbon someone spilled into the pot mid-stir.”
Manny stared. He didn’t talk to strangers, not unless they were dropping off a motor or paying a bill. But she wasn’t looking away, her hazel eyes steady, warm, no trace of the awkward pity most people gave him when they found out he lived alone, spent all his free time fixing old motors instead of golfing or going to happy hour. He grunted, nodded, led her over to the folding table where he’d set his chili down. She grabbed a flimsy paper bowl, he ladled a heaping scoop in, and she took a bite, groaned loud enough that the two volunteer firemen at the next table turned to look. “Holy shit,” she said, wiping a smudge of chili off her chin with the back of her hand. “That’s better than the chili my dad used to make when we’d go camping in the Smokies. I’m Lila, by the way. Moved here three months ago from Nashville. Got sick of picking chihuahuas out of apartment complex dumpsters. Wanted to rescue dogs that get lost on the beach instead.”
He told her his name, what he did for work, and her face lit up so bright he almost looked away. “Wait, you restore vintage outboards? I have a 1978 Johnson on my old fishing boat that’s been dead for two months. I’ve watched every YouTube tutorial there is and I still can’t get it to turn over. I was this close to hauling it to the scrapyard last week.” She leaned in, her shoulder brushing his bicep, and he flinched a little, surprised by the sharp, warm jolt that ran up his arm at the contact. He could smell coconut shampoo, pine all-purpose cleaner, a faint whiff of oatmeal dog shampoo, like she’d bathed a stray that morning. For a second he was angry at himself—he’d spent 11 years building walls, not letting anyone get close, because people left, people were messy, and motors didn’t break your heart for no reason. But she was still looking at him, waiting for an answer, and he found himself saying he could take a look at it, if she wanted, no charge for the diagnostic.
The cookoff ended an hour later, his chili won second place, he got a $25 gift card to the local bait and tackle shop, and they walked the three blocks down to the town dock as the sun dipped pink and orange over the gulf. The wind was sharp off the water, carrying the briny smell of salt and marsh grass, and her shoulder brushed his every few steps, her wavy auburn hair blowing against his neck when a gust hit. He found himself telling her about his ex-wife, about how he’d thrown himself into his work after she left because motors were predictable—if you took care of them, listened to the weird sputters and clicks, they didn’t leave without warning. She didn’t give him that sad, patting-your-arm pity speech he hated. She just nodded, said she got it, she’d stopped dating after her fiancé cheated on her with his vet tech four years ago, had moved to the coast to start over without any of the old baggage.
Her boat was a beat-up 17-foot Boston Whaler, tied to the end of the dock, a plastic dog crate stacked in the back with a faded plaid blanket draped over it. He knelt down to pop the motor cover, and she knelt next to him, her arm pressed tight to his, their legs almost touching as he pointed out the corroded fuel line that was causing the problem. “Easy fix,” he said, twisting the loose line between his fingers. “I have the parts back at the shop. I can knock it out tomorrow afternoon, if you bring it by.” She turned to look at him, their faces only a few inches apart, and he could see the smattering of freckles across her nose, the faint laugh lines around her eyes. “I’ll make it worth your while,” she said, her voice lower than it had been before, warm against his cheek. “I have a peach pie in my fridge I baked last night, and a six pack of that Barq’s root beer you like. And a heated blanket on my couch, if you want to stay and watch the college football game after you finish the repair.”
Manny froze for half a second, his first instinct to say no, to make an excuse about a half-finished motor waiting on his workbench, to go back to his quiet empty house and the frozen pizza he had planned for dinner. Then he looked at her, at the way she was biting her lower lip like she was nervous he’d say no, and he nodded. He helped her snap the motor cover back down, and as they walked back up the dock, she slipped her hand into his, her calloused palm fitting perfectly against his grease-stained one, the sound of the waves slapping against the dock posts drowning out the stupid, anxious voice in his head that kept telling him he was making a mistake.
