Manny Ruiz, 62, spent 38 years hauling freight from El Paso to Fargo before he parked his Peterbilt for good in 2021, now spends his days stripping rust off 1970s Ford F-series parts out of his two-car garage in East Austin. His biggest flaw, as his late wife Maria used to tease him, is that he’s stubborn to a fault—stubborn enough to drive 12 hours through a blizzard to make a delivery on time, stubborn enough to refuse to even consider going on a date for eight full years after Maria’s sudden heart attack, convinced any kind of romantic connection would be a betrayal of the 34 years they had together.
He’s at the VFW fish fry every Friday without fail, usually shows up 15 minutes after opening, grabs a catfish plate, sits in the back booth by the jukebox, drinks two Shiner Bocks, heads home by 8. This Friday is different, because the regular cook is out recovering from knee replacement surgery, and the fill-in is Lena Mendez, the woman who runs the tamale stand off 6th Street on weekends, who also happened to be Maria’s childhood best friend’s little sister. He’s known her in passing for 30 years, always wrote her off as off-limits, the kind of woman you nod at across a family barbecue and nothing more.
He steps up to the counter, asks for extra hushpuppies, and when she passes the paper plate across the linoleum, their fingers brush. Her hands are calloused at the knuckles from rolling masa at 4 a.m. every Saturday, warm even through the thin layer of wax on the plate. He smells jasmine perfume mixed with fried cornmeal and the cigarette she must have snuck on break ten minutes prior, and he freezes for half a beat before he grabs the plate. She holds eye contact longer than she should, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, and nods at the ketchup stain blotted on the front of his faded work shirt. “Looks like you had a fight with a carburetor today,” she says, and he blinks, surprised she even noticed he works on old trucks.
He takes his usual booth, tries to focus on the George Strait song playing low on the jukebox, can’t stop replaying the feel of her fingers against his, the way her silver hoop earrings caught the fluorescent light when she laughed. Ten minutes later she slides into the booth across from him, sets a small paper bowl of creamy coleslaw down in front of him, even though he didn’t order it. “I know you hate the pickled stuff they usually serve,” she says, wiping her hands on her stained apron. “Made this this morning, put extra dill in it like Maria used to.”
His throat tightens. He hasn’t talked about Maria to anyone who isn’t his sister in three years, and the fact that Lena remembers that tiny, stupid detail about his coleslaw preference makes something hot and tight unfurl in his chest, equal parts guilt and sharp, unnameable want. He’s disgusted with himself for even feeling it, for looking at a woman he’s known as family for decades and thinking about the way her lips curl when she smirks, but he can’t look away.
They talk for an hour, she tells him about her 22-year-old son who’s studying engineering at UT, he tells her about the 1972 F-150 he’s restoring for his grandson’s 16th birthday. She leans forward when he talks, her elbow propped on the table, and her knee brushes his under the booth, once, soft, and he doesn’t move his leg away. When the last of the guests leave and the VFW commander locks up the front door, he offers to walk her to her car, it’s drizzling, the kind of fine Texas rain that sticks to your skin and makes the oak trees smell like wet dirt.
He holds the beat-up umbrella he keeps in his truck over her head, and she wraps her arm around his waist to stay out of the rain, her body warm through his flannel shirt. They stop under the awning by the front door so she can grab her keys out of her purse, and before he can overthink it, he brushes a strand of wet dark hair streaked with silver off her forehead. She looks up at him, her eyes dark, and he kisses her, slow, tastes like sweet tea and the peppermint candy she always keeps in her apron pocket, no rush, no pressure. When he pulls back, she’s smiling, not teasing for once, soft.
They make plans to go to the old drive-in in San Marcos the next weekend, they’re playing a double feature of *Urban Cowboy* and *Red River*, he says he’ll bring the peach pie he’s been perfecting since Maria died, the one he only makes for family holidays. She squeezes his hand before she gets in her car, says she’ll bring extra tamales, the pork ones he always buys three of when he stops by her stand on Saturdays. He stands under the awning until her taillights disappear around the corner, the rain soaking the cuff of his jeans, and he doesn’t feel guilty for a single second.
