Manny Ruiz is 53, a custom hardwood flooring installer who’s spent the last eight years perfecting his craft, raising his daughter, and studiously avoiding any situation that requires him to flirt. His worst flaw is that he’s stubborn to a fault—he still refuses to hire an extra hand even when his knees ache after 12-hour days, still sleeps on the same side of the bed he shared with his wife before she died of breast cancer, still lies and says he’s “too busy” when neighbors bug him to come to block parties or weekend cookouts. The only reason he showed up to this one is his daughter begged him to make an effort after her wedding last month, said he was turning into a reclusive hermit who only talked to his two hound dogs and the guy at the lumber yard.
He’s leaning against a splintered cedar fence, holding a lukewarm Pabst, when he spots Clara two yards over, manning the charcoal grill. She moved into the old Craftsman two doors down three months ago, runs a vintage linen shop downtown, and the neighborhood rumor mill had run wild when she first arrived: gossip said she left her husband of 20 years for a female art curator, moved across the state to start over, didn’t date men anymore. Manny had told the guys down at the hardware store to knock off the snide jokes when they brought her up, but he’d also spent the last three months ducking her waves when he left for work at 6 a.m., too flustered to wave back, too stupidly charmed by the way she always wore faded overalls and bright red lipstick even when she was weeding her front garden.
He’d brought a bag of mesquite chips he’d had sitting in his work truck, figured the grill master could use them, and he waits until the crowd around the grill thins out before sauntering over. When he holds the bag out, she reaches for it, and their hands brush—her palm is calloused from folding and pressing vintage fabrics for hours, warm from standing over the coals, and he can smell coconut sunscreen and charcoal smoke and a hint of jasmine perfume when she leans in. “Nice of you to bring these,” she says, and she holds eye contact longer than normal, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a smirk like she knows he’s been avoiding her. He mumbles something about it being no big deal, stumbles over his words when he asks if she needs extra tongs, and walks away before he can make an even bigger fool of himself.
He’s halfway through his second beer when the sky opens up, fat warm raindrops pouring down without warning. Everyone scrambles to grab food and coolers, and he sees Clara trip over a lawn chair, drop a cooler of root beer that spills cans across the grass. He jogs over to help, picks up half a dozen cans, and they both duck under the awning of his beat-up work truck to get out of the rain, their shoulders pressed tight together because the awning only covers a foot and a half of space. He can hear the rain hammering on the roof of the truck, the distant shouts of neighbors laughing as they run for cover, and the quiet thud of his own heart beating way too fast.
“Y’know, I’ve been trying to say hi to you for three months,” she says, turning to look at him, and her face is so close he can count the freckles across her nose. “You always look like you’re about to run the other direction when you see me. Did I do something to piss you off?”
He shakes his head, feels his ears go red. “No. No, I just… heard the rumors. Figured you weren’t interested in talking to some guy who spends 90% of his time covered in sawdust. Also, I haven’t had a conversation that wasn’t about floor finish or dog food in like, eight years.”
She laughs, a low warm sound, and she leans in a little closer, so their knees knock together. “The rumors are mostly true. I did leave my ex for a woman. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like nice guys who tell the hardware store idiots to stop making gross jokes about me. I heard about that, by the way.” She reaches up, brushes a fleck of sawdust that’s been stuck to the collar of his flannel all day off with her thumb, her knuckle grazing his collarbone for half a second, and he swears his skin is on fire where she touched him. “Also, I like sawdust. My shop is always covered in old linen fuzz. It’s the same vibe.”
He blinks, processes that for a second, and then he remembers he has half a smoked brisket sitting in his fridge at home, and a collection of 70s soul records he hasn’t played for anyone in years. “I got brisket at my place,” he says, before he can overthink it. “Smoked it yesterday. And a record player. If you wanna come over later. After this.”
She grins, pulls a pen out of her overalls pocket, holds her hand out for his wallet. He pulls it out, hands her one of his custom flooring business cards, and she scribbles her number on the back, her fingers lingering on his when she hands it back. “I’d like that,” she says. The rain slows to a drizzle, and she pushes off the truck, waves at him over her shoulder as she walks back toward the party.
He tucks the card into the front pocket of his jeans, takes a sip of his beer, and watches her stop to pet one of his hound dogs that wandered over to say hi, laughing when the dog licks her cheek. For the first time in eight years, he doesn’t feel like rushing home to hide.
