Manny Ruiz, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, had only agreed to show up to the fire department’s annual chili cookoff to get his former student off his back. The kid, now a volunteer firefighter, had showed up on Manny’s porch three days prior with a six pack of craft IPA and a plea, said all the old timers would be there, that the chili was so spicy it’d clear out four years of Manny’s self-imposed hermit dust. Manny had stopped showing up to town events after his wife Linda passed from ovarian cancer in 2019; the small talk about grandkids and blood pressure meds made his chest feel tight, like he was suffocating under a blanket of other people’s expectations to “move on” before he was ready.
He’d been there 22 minutes, tops, when he turned too fast to avoid a kid running with a full cup of Kool-Aid, and spilled half his bowl of five-alarm chili down the front of a woman’s frayed denim jacket. He sputtered an apology, grabbing a handful of napkins from the stack by the cooler, and froze when she lifted her chin. It was Clara Bennett, ex-wife of Manny’s old vice principal, the woman he’d spent 12 years stealing shy glances at across parent-teacher conference tables and school board meetings, back when both of them were married and the closest they’d ever gotten was passing a stack of permission slips across a folding table, their fingers brushing for half a second. She was 58 now, a few strands of silver threading through the chestnut hair she wore pulled back in a loose braid, laugh lines fanning out at the corners of her hazel eyes when she grinned and said she’d always wanted an excuse to get rid of that jacket anyway.
The crowd around the beer cooler shifted, a group of firefighters yelling about a raffle win shoving them closer together, their shoulders pressing tight enough that Manny could smell lavender lotion mixed with the smoky tang of the fire pit burning out by the parking lot, the sweet fizz of root beer from the keg next to them. She held out her hand for the napkins, and her thumb brushed the scar across his knuckle, the one he’d gotten when a table saw kicked back on him in 2017, and she said she remembered that injury, remembered the VP complaining for a week that Manny was going to get himself killed if he didn’t start wearing safety gloves. He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months, and said he still hated those gloves, still thought they made him fumble the wood.
They talked for 40 minutes, leaning up against the cooler while the noise of the cookoff swirled around them, the rain starting to spit down halfway through, fat cold drops hitting the back of Manny’s neck. She told him she’d divorced the VP three years prior, caught him cheating with the third grade teacher, moved back to town last year to open the little independent bookstore on Main Street. He told her about Linda, about the woodshop he’d built in his garage, about the custom cutting boards he made for the local farmers market on weekends. Every time someone squeezed past them, they got a little closer, their hips brushing, her arm pressing against his bicep when she laughed at his terrible joke about the VP’s terrible taste in ties. Manny kept waiting for the familiar tightness in his chest to hit, the urge to mumble an excuse and leave before he got too attached, but it never came. All he could focus on was the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the warmth of her arm through his flannel shirt, the fact that she didn’t once ask him when he was going to “get back out there” like every other person in town had.
The rain picked up fast, pouring down so hard people were sprinting for their cars, jackets held over their heads, and Manny offered to walk her to her truck, parked two blocks over by the hardware store. They ran through the rain, laughing, slipping a little on the wet asphalt, and ducked under the hardware store’s faded red awning to catch their breath. The rain was coming down so hard you could barely see across the street, the sound of it hitting the awning loud enough to drown out everything else. She looked up at him, her hair stuck to her forehead, and said she’d been asking about him for months, had stopped by the farmers market three times hoping to run into him, had been too nervous to knock on his door, didn’t want to overstep when she knew he was still grieving.
Manny felt something unclench in his chest, something he’d thought was locked up forever after Linda died. He reached out, slow, like he was approaching a skittish deer, and tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear. She leaned into his touch, her hand coming up to rest on his wrist, and when he kissed her, she didn’t pull away. It was slow, soft, no rush, tasted like the spiced cider she’d been drinking all night, warm even through the cold air seeping through their wet clothes.
They made it to her truck a few minutes later, the rain slowing to a light drizzle, and she leaned against the driver’s side door, twisting her keychain around her finger, and asked if he wanted to come back to her place. She said she had a batch of chocolate chip cookies she’d baked that morning, still sitting on her kitchen counter, and a first edition of that old Louis L’Amour western he’d kept on his desk in the woodshop, the one he’d let students borrow if they finished their projects early and didn’t cause trouble. Manny didn’t hesitate. He tossed his half-eaten bowl of chili in the trash can by the curb, wiped the rain off his face, and climbed into the passenger seat. He rested his hand on the center console, and when she laced her fingers through his, he didn’t flinch, didn’t overthink it, just watched the raindrops race down the windshield as she pulled out of the parking lot.
