Manny Ruiz, 52, spent 28 years as an air traffic controller at Orlando International before he quit six months after his wife left him for a commercial pilot she’d been flirting with over radio comms for three years. These days he restores vintage travel trailers out of his double garage in a sleepy central Florida subdivision, keeps odd hours, avoids neighborhood events like the plague, and survives on gas station cold brew, frozen meat lovers pizza, and a rotating stack of 1970s Westerns he’s seen a dozen times each. He only showed up to the late August block party because 19-year-old next door neighbor Lila had cornered him that morning, holding a Tupperware of key lime bars, and said she’d leave a whole chilled pie on his porch if he stayed for at least an hour. He couldn’t say no.
He stood by the rusted tiki torch at the edge of the grass, sipping a lukewarm Michelob Ultra, still wearing his scuffed work boots and faded US Airways ball cap, the smell of charred burgers and citronella candles thick in the humid air that stuck to the back of his neck. He was counting down the minutes until he could leave when she walked over. She was in cutoff denim shorts and a faded Florida Gators tee, a smudge of charcoal streaked along her left forearm, holding a lime seltzer in one hand, a few strands of chestnut hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. She stood close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, sweet tang of smoked ribs on her shirt, close enough that her elbow brushed his bicep when she reached for a stack of napkins on the folding table behind him. He flinched before he could stop himself; he hadn’t been touched by anyone who wasn’t handing him a wrench or a check for repair work in almost seven years.
She apologized immediately, holding up her hands, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Said her name was Maren, she’d moved into the pale blue bungalow at the end of the block three weeks prior, ran a mobile bookmobile that made weekly stops at 12 senior care facilities across three counties. She nodded at his cap, said her dad had worked ATC at Orlando International for 32 years, had the same beat-up cap hanging by his front door until he died last year. Manny found himself talking before he could overthink it, told her about the time a drunk pilot had tried to land a small prop plane on a taxiway during 2017’s hurricane season, about the way his shoulders had stayed tight for 10 years straight before he quit, about how fixing trailers was easier because they never yelled at him when he took an extra day to get the floorboards right.
She laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the noise of the kids screaming on the bounce house down the block, leaned in a little closer so he could hear her over the Toby Keith song blaring from the portable speaker. She said she’d bought a beat-up 1968 Scotty trailer off Facebook Marketplace two months prior, had been trying to find someone who knew what they were doing to fix the leaky roof and the stuck rear door before she took it up to North Carolina for leaf peeping in October. Manny hesitated for half a second, the old familiar voice in his head yelling that he was too set in his ways, too boring, too rusty at talking to people to get mixed up with anyone new, before he said he’d take a look at it. No charge, he added, if she brought him a slice of the peach cobbler she’d set on the dessert table 20 minutes earlier; he’d been eyeing it since he walked in.
She grinned, and the tiki torch flame caught the flecks of gold in her green eyes, her hand brushing his when she passed him a paper plate with a heaping slice of cobbler, still warm, the crust crumbly, the syrup oozing over the edges. Her fingers were calloused, rough from hauling boxes of hardcovers and turning hundreds of pages a day, and the jolt of that small, accidental touch shot all the way up his arm to the base of his skull. She said that was a steal, but only if he let her hang around while he worked, she was terrible with power tools but great at bringing cold beer and telling terrible stories about the 92-year-old retired burlesque dancer at one of her facilities who still gave her dating advice every week.
They talked for another 45 minutes, long after his beer was empty and the cobbler was gone, the sun dipping below the oak trees, fireflies flickering in the bushes at the edge of the yard. When she asked if he wanted to come with her on that leaf peeping trip, if he got the Scotty done in time, said she had an extra sleeping bag or they could split a hotel if he was uncomfortable, he didn’t even hesitate. Said no hotel needed, the Scotty had plenty of space for two, as long as she didn’t mind him snoring so loud he scared off the local wildlife. She laughed, typed her number into his beat-up old flip phone, said she’d bring the Scotty over Saturday at 9am, don’t be late, and she’d bring a whole pie of that peach cobbler as a down payment.
He walked home 10 minutes later, the crumpled napkin from the cobbler in his jeans pocket, the faint smell of coconut sunscreen still clinging to the cuff of his flannel shirt, and he didn’t realize he was smiling until he tripped over his own welcome mat.
