Manny Ruiz, 52, runs a vintage motorcycle restoration shop out of a converted tobacco barn 20 minutes outside Asheville, North Carolina. He’s avoided any social outing that doesn’t involve spark plugs or gas fumes for seven years, ever since his divorce finalized and he packed up his half of the Charlotte house to move west. His worst flaw? He’d rather spend three nights straight rebuilding a carburetor than make small talk with a stranger, convinced every post-50 interaction that’s not work-related ends with someone complaining about their ex or asking him to fix their kid’s dirt bike for free.
The only exception he makes every year is the county’s classic car and bike show. It’s mid-July, the air thick enough to sip, smelling like burnt hot dogs, two-stroke exhaust, and pine resin oozing off the oak trees strung with fairy lights. He’s leaning against the tank of his just-finished 1972 Honda CB750, the burnt orange metal flake paint glinting in the late sun, sipping a lukewarm Pabst he grabbed from the cooler by the entrance. He’s actively avoiding the group of gearheads he knows from the local auto parts store, who keep waving him over to rant about their alimony payments, when a woman trips over a folding cooler two feet from his boots.
She sloshes half a can of black cherry seltzer down the side of his scuffed work boot before catching herself on his forearm. Her grip is firm, calloused at the fingertips, and she holds on for two beats longer than necessary while she laughs off the stumble. Manny recognizes her immediately: she’s Clara, the mom of the 19-year-old kid who dropped off a beat-up 1969 Triumph Bonneville at his shop three months prior. He’d only talked to her once over the phone, when she’d called to pay the bill and ask if he’d teach her kid basic maintenance so he didn’t blow another engine. She’s wearing a faded 1993 Aerosmith tour tee, frayed cutoff denim, and steel-toe work boots, a sparrow tattoo curling around her left wrist.
She apologizes three times, offers to buy him a new beer, and before he can make an excuse to leave, she’s sitting on the tailgate of a dented 1987 Ford F-150 parked next to his bike, patting the spot next to her. He sits. Their knees brush when she shifts to grab a bag of salted peanuts from her tote, and he catches the scent of coconut sunscreen and cherry vape on her shirt. She mentions she’d seen the CB750 when she dropped off the Triumph, that the custom paint job was the first thing she’d looked for when she walked into the show. Manny’s used to guys complimenting his work, but when she points out the tiny silver leaf detailing he hid on the side of the tank, he’s caught off guard. No one else has noticed that yet.
They talk for an hour. She’s a traveling ER nurse, just got back from a three-month stint in Fort Lauderdale, working in a senior care facility where half the patients lied about their medical histories to sneak beer into their rooms. She restores old push lawnmowers in her garage for fun, fixes them for free for the elderly neighbors on her street. She teases him about the permanent grease under his fingernails when she passes him a handful of peanuts, their fingers brushing again, and he feels a zip up his spine he hasn’t felt since before his divorce. Half of him is screaming to make an excuse, go home to his quiet barn, eat the frozen pepperoni pizza he has in the freezer, no strings attached. The other half can’t stop staring at the crinkles around her eyes when she laughs, the way she tucks a strand of gray-streaked brown hair behind her ear when she rants about the last guy she went on a date with, an accountant who spent two hours talking about his golf handicap.
The sun dips below the tree line, and the show’s announcer booms over the speakers, calling Manny’s name for best custom motorcycle. The crowd cheers, and when he sits back down, trophy in hand, Clara grabs his bicep, her palm warm through the thin cotton of his work shirt, and leans in so close her breath brushes his ear. She says her son told her he never talks to anyone, that he spends all his time holed up in that barn, and that she thinks he’s way more interesting than any of the boring guys she’s been set up with all year. She asks if he wants to come back to her place. She has a 1968 Briggs & Stratton engine she’s been stuck on for weeks, could use a second pair of eyes.
Manny doesn’t hesitate. He nods, grins, tells her he brings his own set of flathead screwdrivers everywhere. She laughs, stands up, and tugs his hand to pull him toward the parking lot. He’d left his CB750 parked next to her beat up forest green Subaru Outback, a “World’s Okayest Mom” bumper sticker peeling off the back. He tugs his keys out of his jeans pocket, the metal warm from sitting against his thigh all afternoon, and follows her to her car, the distant hum of idling bike engines fading behind them.
