Manny Ruiz is 57, runs a vintage camper restoration shop out of a cinder block building on the edge of New Braunfels, Texas. He’s lived alone since his wife, Lena, passed from breast cancer eight years prior, and his only consistent social interaction is arguing with parts suppliers over the phone and giving his border collie, Mabel, extra bacon scraps at breakfast. His biggest flaw is that he’s convinced any romantic entanglement at his age is a fool’s errand, guaranteed to end in more grief than it’s worth, so he’s brushed off every advance from regulars at the diner down the street and even the county clerk who brings him homemade tamales every Christmas. He only drove to the annual town BBQ cookoff that Saturday because Mabel had chewed through the last of his frozen brisket leftovers, and he’d heard the grand prize winner had been perfecting their rub for 12 years.
The air reeked of oak smoke, burnt sugar, and vinegar-based mop sauce the second he stepped out of his beat up 2001 Ford F-150, cowboy hat pulled low against the mid-afternoon sun. He’d made it three booths in, already had a paper plate stacked with sausage links and ribs, when he spotted his new neighbor, Clara, standing behind a booth strung with fairy lights and a hand-painted sign that read “Clara’s Brisket & Book Binding.” He’d only nodded at her a handful of times since she moved into the cottage three doors down three months prior, knew she fixed old textbooks and first editions for a living, had seen her hauling a beat up 1972 Airstream into her driveway two weeks earlier. She wiped her hands on her stained denim apron, grinned, and waved him over before he could pretend he hadn’t seen her.
He ambled over, boots crunching on loose gravel, and she held out a sample slice of brisket on a paper towel, her elbow brushing his firm bicep when she passed it over. The fat melted on his tongue the second he bit into it, smoky and salty with a hint of coffee, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Told you I was good,” she said, leaning against the edge of the booth, her shoulder almost pressed to his as a group of kids ran past yelling. He was about to mumble a noncommittal response and leave when the sky opened up, fat cold raindrops slamming down so fast the asphalt steamed where they hit. Everyone scattered, yelling, and she grabbed his wrist, yanking him under the small pop-up canopy strung over her booth before he could run for his truck.
The canopy was barely big enough for two people, their shoulders pressed tight together, rain drumming so loud on the plastic he had to lean in to hear her when she talked. He could smell lavender lotion under the smoke clinging to her clothes, could feel the heat of her arm through his flannel work shirt, and his chest tightened like he was doing something wrong, like he was betraying Lena by even standing this close to another woman that made his pulse jump. He almost made an excuse to run out into the rain, even though he’d catch a cold for sure, when she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, pointing at the drip falling off the brim of his cowboy hat right onto the tip of his nose. She reached up without thinking, brushing the drop off his cheek with her thumb, her calloused fingers (from smoothing book spines, he realized) lingering for half a second before she pulled back, her cheeks pink even under the smudge of charcoal on her jaw.
The fight in his head was so loud he almost didn’t hear her when she said she’d been looking for an excuse to talk to him for weeks, had stood at her kitchen window more than once watching him work on that cherry red 1968 Winnebago in his driveway, thought it was the coolest thing she’d ever seen. She pulled a half-empty jar of homemade peach cobbler filling out of the cooler under the booth, grabbed two plastic spoons, and held it out between them. They passed the jar back and forth, their fingers brushing every time they swapped, the sweet tart taste of peaches cutting through the smoke in his throat. He told her about Lena, about how he’d thrown himself into restoring campers after she died because he didn’t know what else to do, about how he’d convinced himself he was never gonna feel that spark for anyone else ever again. She didn’t pity him, just nodded, said she’d gotten divorced five years prior after 20 years of marriage, had moved out to New Braunfels because she was tired of feeling like she was just going through the motions.
The rain stopped 20 minutes later, the sun breaking through the clouds so bright it made the puddles glow like scattered pieces of glass. She wiped her hands on her apron again, pulled a crumpled napkin out of her pocket, scribbled her phone number on it in blue ink, and tucked it into the breast pocket of his flannel, her thumb brushing the worn seam of the pocket as she pulled her hand away. She asked if he wanted to come over to her place after the cookoff ended, take a look at the Airstream, tell her how much it would cost to fix it up for cross-country road trips. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t make an excuse about being booked six months out, just nodded. He walked back to his truck 10 minutes later, plate half full of leftover brisket in one hand, Mabel’s leash in the other, and could still feel the ghost of her thumb on his chest through his shirt.
