Manny Ruiz, 53, makes his living restoring vintage pinball machines out of a converted two-car garage in east Austin. He’s lived in the same bungalow for 19 years, and since his wife Maria died of ovarian cancer eight years prior, he’s clung to a rigid, self-imposed isolation: only speaks to clients over email, stops at the same dive bar for exactly one draft beer every Tuesday and Thursday, and hasn’t invited another person inside his home once. His worst flaw, if you ask the few regulars who know him, is that he’ll shut down any conversation that even hints at setups or first dates, convinced any new joy with someone else is a betrayal of the memory of the woman he’d married at 24.
He only dragged his crockpot of brisket chili to the neighborhood block party cook-off because three regulars from the bar had showed up at his shop the night before, holding a six pack of his favorite Mexican lager, and badgered him until he caved. He planned to drop the crockpot off, grab a beer, lean against the oak tree at the edge of the park, and leave before the winners were announced. That plan fell apart 30 seconds after he set the crockpot on the folding table, when he turned to reach for a can of Modelo from the cooler and his hand brushed someone else’s.
The hand belonged to Lena Marlow, his new next door neighbor, who’d moved in three weeks prior with a golden retriever and a truck full of flower buckets. She’d waved at him twice from her porch when she was unloading boxes, both times he’d nodded so fast he’d almost dropped the pinball flipper he was carrying, then scurried back inside his garage like a shy teenager. She was wearing faded denim overalls over a white tank top, sun-bleached blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid, a tiny sunflower tattoo peeking out from the cuff of her left sleeve. She smelled like lavender and cut grass, and when she laughed at the way he flinched back like he’d touched a hot stove, her voice was raspy, like she smoked one menthol cigarette a day after dinner.
“I’ve been trying to flag you down for weeks,” she said, leaning against the cooler, her shoulder brushing his bicep when she nodded toward the half-restored 1978 Space Shuttle pinball machine he’d propped against his garage the night before to rewire the backglass. “That exact machine was at my grandma’s arcade in Corpus when I was a kid. I could beat every boy in town on it by the time I was 12.”
Manny froze. He’d bought that machine two months prior, had spent every weekend sanding the cabinet and tracking down original replacement parts, because it was the first machine he and Maria had ever played on their first date. For a second, he felt that familiar twist of guilt in his gut, the voice in his head screaming that he shouldn’t be talking to her, that he should mumble an excuse and walk away. But he didn’t. He found himself telling her about the custom LED strips he was installing, the way he’d tracked down an original sound board from a collector in Dallas, the way the machine still made that faint static hum when you turned it on that he’d always loved. She leaned in when he talked, her eyes never leaving his, and when a group of kids ran past chasing a dog, she stepped closer to him, her hip pressing against his for three full seconds before she moved back.
He lost track of time entirely, didn’t even notice when the judges finished tasting all the chili entries until the emcee called his name over the speaker, saying he’d won first place, a $200 gift card to the local hardware store he’d been shopping at for 20 years. He turned to tell her, and she was already grinning, reaching up to brush a fleck of chili off his jaw with her thumb, the pad of her finger warm against his skin, lingering half a second longer than a friendly touch should. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. For the first time in eight years, that voice of guilt in his head went quiet.
“Y’know,” he said, stuffing the gift card in the pocket of his work jeans, “I’ve got that machine set up in my living room right now, if you want to come over later and test it. I baked a peach pie last night, still sitting on the counter.”
She grinned, grabbing a small bouquet of bluebonnets from the table of free flowers she’d set up for the cook-off. “Only if you let me win the first round.”
They walked side by side down the block back to their houses, her hand brushing his every few steps, neither of them pulling away. When they got to his porch, he unlocked the front door, held it open for her, and she stepped inside, the scent of her lavender mixing with the familiar smell of old wood and metal polish that lingered in every room of the house.
