Manny Ruiz is 62, retired high school football referee, spent 28 years calling holding penalties and breaking up scuffles between 17 year olds with more adrenaline than sense. Since his wife Carol passed three years prior, he’d perfected the art of hiding out: he only left his house to get coffee at Lena’s Bakery on Tuesdays, mow his lawn at 7 a.m. sharp on Saturdays, and go to his monthly doctor’s appointment. His biggest flaw? He’d convinced himself any interest in another woman was a slap in the face to the 34 years he and Carol spent together, even when she’d explicitly told him on her deathbed to stop being a stubborn ass and find someone to laugh with once she was gone.
His old lineman teammate Jimmie dragged him to the VFW fish fry on a rainy April Friday, no arguments allowed. The air inside the cinder block hall smelled like fried catfish, vinegar coleslaw, and cheap draft beer, Merle Haggard’s “Mama Tried” crackling through the rusted PA system above the bar. Manny leaned against the cooler by the door, beer so cold it made his knuckles ache, counting down the minutes until he could make a polite exit, when a hip bumped hard into his left bicep.
He turned, half ready to snap, and found Lena Marlow, 58, owner of the bakery down the street, fumbling to keep a tray of coleslaw cups from tipping off her arm. Her free hand clamped down on his forearm to steady herself, the rough callus on her thumb from 30 years of kneading dough catching on the frayed edge of his old referee jersey, the one he still wore to casual events even though the number 17 on the back was faded almost to white. A single dollop of coleslaw splattered onto the jersey’s chest, and she laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the noise of the crowd. “Sorry about that, Manny. These stupid paper trays have the structural integrity of a wet paper towel.”
He froze. He hadn’t been touched by anyone who wasn’t his primary care physician in 38 months. His first instinct was to pull away, mumble an excuse, head for the door. But she smelled like vanilla extract and ground cinnamon, the same scent that drifted out of her bakery’s open back door every morning when he walked his beagle, Max. Her silver hoop earrings caught the string lights strung across the ceiling, and her eyes crinkled at the corners when she grinned, the same way they did when she slipped him an extra beef empanada with his black coffee every Tuesday, no charge.
“Got a napkin?” He said instead of running, and she fished a crumpled paper napkin out of her jeans pocket, leaning in to dab at the coleslaw stain on his chest. She was so close he could feel the heat off her shoulder, the brush of her gray-streaked hair against his jaw when she leaned in further to get the edge of the spot. Everyone in town knew he was Carol’s guy, had been since they were 18. He could feel a few of the old regulars glancing over from the bar, quiet curiosity in their stares, and that old guilt twisted in his gut, sharp and familiar. He was being disloyal. He shouldn’t be enjoying this.
“Carol used to come in every Saturday before she got sick,” Lena said, like she could read his mind, stepping back a little to give him space, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “She’d order a dozen pralines for your birthday every year, said you had a bigger sweet tooth than all the elementary school kids that came in after class combined. Told me once you’d turn into a hermit the second she was gone, that I’d have to work real hard to drag you out of the house.”
The guilt softened, just a little. He’d forgotten Carol did that, forgot she talked to other people about him when he wasn’t around. He nodded, sipping his beer, and nodded at the empty picnic table in the back corner of the hall, away from the crowd. “Wanna sit? I haven’t had any of your pie in years.”
She lit up, carrying her tray over to the table, pulling a plastic container of peach pie out of her tote bag a minute later, sliding a slice across the table to him on a paper plate. Their fingers brushed when he took the plate, and he didn’t flinch this time, didn’t pull away. The crust was flaky, the peaches sweet, just the right amount of cinnamon, and he groaned out loud, making her laugh again.
They talked for two hours, about the old high school football games he’d reffed, about the time her kid and his kid snuck out of prom to get tacos at the gas station on the edge of town, about Carol’s stupid habit of leaving her socks in the middle of the living room floor. He told her he’d been avoiding her for six months, because every time he saw her he wanted to ask her out, and he felt like he was cheating on Carol. She didn’t judge him, just nodded, sipping her sweet tea, and said she’d been waiting for him to get his head out of his ass, she didn’t want to replace Carol, just wanted to spend time with the grumpy guy who brought her fresh tomatoes from his garden every summer.
When the event wrapped up, the volunteers stacking folding chairs and turning off the string lights, he walked her out to her beat up pickup truck, rain still misting down on the back of his neck. She leaned in, kissed his cheek soft, her lipstick leaving a faint pink mark on his skin, and he caught her wrist before she could pull away, his thumb brushing that same callus on her hand. “Breakfast tomorrow? At the bakery. I’ll even bring you those tomatoes I’ve got ripening on the vine.”
She grinned, unlocking her truck door. “7 a.m. Don’t be late, I’ll save you the first empanada out of the oven.”
He waited until her taillights turned the corner at the end of Main Street before he headed home, the faint taste of peach and cinnamon still lingering on his lower lip.
