Manny Ruiz, 53, has made a career out of bringing rusted, forgotten camper vans back to life, and a habit out of forgetting to live his own. Seven years prior, his ex-wife left their Portland apartment for a startup bro with a Tesla and a timeshare in Cabo, so he packed up his tools, bought three acres outside Bend, and built a garage big enough for four vans and nothing else: no social calendar, no casual dates, no stupid small town fundraisers he couldn’t talk his way out of. He only showed up to the fire relief benefit at the Hilltop Bar last week because his only real friend, the guy who runs the local hardware store, threatened to stop holding back hard-to-find engine parts for him if he bailed.
He’d already won the $50 gift card to his go-to parts supplier in the first raffle draw, and was halfway to the door when a wall of drunk ranchers cutting between the bar and the outdoor grill blocked his exit, so he ducked into the only empty booth left, squeezed into the far corner, planning to wait out the crowd. Three minutes later, someone slid into the seat next to him, thigh pressing firm to his denim-clad leg, and he turned to snap that the seat was taken, until he saw her. Lila Carter, 44, widow of the feed store owner he’d done a free transmission repair for two months before the guy dropped dead of a heart attack in his hay barn. Manny had avoided her for 18 months straight, because he’d been stupid enough to have a crush on her since the first time she’d dropped off her husband’s truck, sun-streaked hair pulled back in a braid, a smudge of dirt on her jaw from hauling feed sacks that morning. He’d told himself it was disrespectful, that a good man didn’t look at another guy’s wife like that, even when the guy was gone, even when the looks were all he ever let himself have.
She smelled like jasmine perfume and charcoal from the grill outside, her bare shoulder brushing his bicep when she leaned in to yell over the country cover band screaming a Johnny Cash cover. “Figured I’d hide out here too, everyone’s been trying to set me up with their divorced cousins all night,” she said, grinning, the tiny scar on her left cheek crinkling at the corner. He nodded, fumbling with his beer bottle so hard the label peeled off at the edge. He could feel the heat of her leg through his jeans, the way she didn’t shift away when the booth wiggled from someone slamming into the side of it, her knee pressing harder against his for half a second before the crowd moved on.
She told him she’d started working at the winery on the west side of town six months prior, running weekend tastings, that she’d been looking for a vintage camper to take up to the national forest on her days off, and that she’d heard he was the best in the state for that kind of work. He made himself talk, told her about the 1972 VW Bus he was halfway done restoring, pale blue paint, pop top, custom cedar interior, that he was gonna list it for sale at the end of the month. She leaned across him to grab a crumpled napkin off the other side of the table when she spilled a drop of beer on her jeans, her chest brushing his arm for a beat too long, and when she pulled back she was smirking, eye contact steady, like she knew exactly what she’d done.
The band took a break half an hour later, the noise level dropping enough that they didn’t have to yell anymore, and neither of them made a move to leave. She reached over and touched his wrist, her fingers cold from holding her beer, and said she’d had a crush on him for three years, that she’d noticed him staring at her when she dropped off the truck, that her husband had even joked once that if he ever kicked the bucket, she should go find the quiet van guy who fixed their transmission for free. Manny’s throat went dry, the voice in his head that had been yelling that this was wrong, that he was crossing some unspoken line, going quiet all at once. He’d spent so long punishing himself for wanting something, anything, that he hadn’t even considered she might want it too.
They left the bar ten minutes later, him holding the door open for her, her hand brushing the small of his back when she stepped past him. The night air smelled like pine and the faint, sharp tang of leftover wildfire smoke from the small blaze they’d been raising money to cover costs for, the sky dark enough that the stars were bright above the tree line. He drove her back to his property in his beat up F150, the windows rolled down, no radio playing, no awkward small talk, just the wind whipping through the cab.
He unlocked the garage door, flipped on the overhead lights, and the half-restored VW bus glowed pale blue under the fluorescents, new cedar paneling leaning against the wall next to it, the seats stripped out waiting for new upholstery. She stepped past him, running her hand along the curved metal of the van’s side, then turned to face him, leaning back against the body. He reached up and pushed a strand of hair off her face, his thumb brushing that tiny scar on her cheek, then he pulled the garage door shut behind them before he kissed her.
