Manny Ruiz is 62, retired HVAC tech who spent 37 years crawling into commercial walk-in freezers across West Texas, fixing busted compressors for grocery stores that ran 24/7 no matter the weather. He’s got a scar snaking up his left forearm from a time a loose fan blade caught him mid-repair in a Plainview Walmart freezer, and a habit of avoiding any conversation that lasts longer than it takes to pay for a case of beer at the corner store. His ex-wife left him 18 years ago for a traveling propane salesman who told better jokes and didn’t come home smelling of freon and fried food every night, and he’s spent every year since convinced letting anyone new into his orbit just means setting himself up to be the butt of another small-town Lubbock joke. He lives alone in a 2-bed ranch on the edge of town, spends most days restoring vintage carburetors in his garage, and only leaves the house for weekly VFW fish fries and runs to the hardware store.
He’s halfway through his second beer and a plate of overcooked catfish when someone slides into the booth across from him, uninvited. He looks up ready to brush them off, and stops. It’s Clara Marlow, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the kid he’d fixed a rusted 10-speed for when she was 16, the one who’d used to hang around their house after school to avoid her drunk stepdad. He hasn’t seen her in 20 years, not since she moved to Austin for college. Her hair’s streaked with silver now, tied back in a loose braid, and she’s wearing a faded Texas Tech hoodie and scuffed work boots, same as she did when she was a kid. She grins, and he spots the same tiny mole above her upper lip that his ex has, except on Clara it sits softer, off to the left, no sharp edge to it.
She says she’s in town for three months, helping her mom recover from a total knee replacement. He nods, picks at a hushpuppy, half ready to make an excuse and leave. He doesn’t need the gossip. His ex still runs the hair salon on Main Street, still tells everyone who will listen that he was a boring, cold son of a bitch who cared more about broken freezers than he ever did about her. If she finds out he’s even talking to her cousin, she’ll raise hell all over town.
Clara leans forward across the booth, elbows on the scratched wooden table, and her knee brushes his under the vinyl seating. It’s accidental at first, she pulls back a fraction, then pauses, and presses it back again, light, steady, no one else can see. She holds his gaze when she talks, no looking away, no polite half-smiles. She asks about the Camaro he was rebuilding back when they were married, says she always thought it was the coolest car in town. He tells her he’s still working on it, almost done, just needs a new carburetor he tracked down from a junkyard in Amarillo. When he tells her the story about getting locked in a Walmart freezer for 45 minutes with a pallet of cherry popsicles, she laughs so hard she snorts, and he realizes he hasn’t made anyone laugh like that in years.
She reaches across the table to steal a hushpuppy off his plate, and her wrist brushes his. Her skin is cool from holding her iced tea, soft, and he feels a jolt shoot up his arm he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager sneaking around with his high school girlfriend. For a second he’s disgusted with himself. She’s his ex’s family. Everyone in this VFW knows who she is, someone will run their mouth, he’ll have to hear about it for months. But then she says she always thought her cousin was an idiot for leaving him, that he was the only grown up in their whole family who ever treated her like she wasn’t a burden, and the tight knot in his chest loosens. He can’t remember the last time someone said something that kind to him, no hidden agenda, no expectation of anything in return.
The sun dips below the horizon while they talk, painting the sky pink and orange through the screen windows of the VFW hall. The jukebox in the corner spits out an old George Strait track, the same one he and his ex danced to at their wedding, but it doesn’t sting this time. Clara’s knee is still pressed to his, warm through the denim of their jeans, and she’s twisting the silver ring on her index finger, a nervous habit he remembers she had when she was a kid. He offers to walk her to her car, and she nods, standing up and slinging her canvas bag over her shoulder.
The air outside is still warm, thick with the smell of fried food and diesel from the pickup trucks lined up in the parking lot, crickets chirping loud in the grass along the curb. When they get to her beat-up blue Subaru, she stops, turns to him, and leans in, kissing him soft, no rush, no pressure. He freezes for half a second, eyes darting to the VFW door half expecting someone to walk out, then he kisses her back, his hand coming up to rest light on her hip. She tastes like peach iced tea and mint gum, and he doesn’t care if anyone sees them anymore. He’s 62 years old, he’s spent 18 years hiding from the world because he was scared of getting hurt again, and he’s done with that.
He asks her if she wants to come back to his place, see the Camaro, and she grins, says she’d love to. He holds open her passenger side door before walking around to climb behind the wheel of his own truck, the faint taste of her peach lip gloss still lingering on his tongue.
