Manny Ruiz, 57, spent 31 years driving diesel locomotives across the Rockies before he retired last spring, and the only thing he hated more than small talk was neighborhood block parties. He’d spent the eight years since his wife Elena passed avoiding them entirely, holed up in his workshop sanding model train bodies or regrouting the bathroom tile rather than fielding pitying questions about how he was holding up. He only agreed to show up to this one because the 12-year-old down the street, who’d been bugging him for train lessons for six months, begged him to bring a table of his memorabilia.
He’d propped the folding table against an ancient oak at the edge of the cul-de-sac, spread out vintage rail spikes, faded route maps, a framed photo of him standing on the footplate of the last Rio Grande locomotive he’d operated, and a half-empty can of Coors Banquet he’d been nursing for 45 minutes. He was half considering bailing and heading home to rewatch a documentary on steam engines when a shadow fell over his map collection.
He looked up. The woman who’d moved into the blue bungalow next door three weeks prior was leaning in, her face inches from a 1972 route map of the Continental Divide line. She wore a faded gray flannel, scuffed work boots, and a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, and she smelled like pine cleaner and the warm cinnamon of the apple cider donuts the PTA was selling three tables over. Her hand hovered over the rail spike he’d pulled from a stretch of track outside Grand Junction in 2001, and when she reached for it, the back of her hand brushed his.
Her skin was cool, calloused at the index finger like she spent a lot of time digging in dirt, and Manny jerked his hand back like he’d touched a live third rail. He felt his ears burn, furious with himself for even reacting, for noticing the streak of silver at her temple or the way her freckles stood out against the golden hour sun. He’d not so much as looked at another woman since Elena died, and the twist of want low in his gut made him feel sick, like he was betraying a promise he didn’t remember making.
“Sorry,” she said, but she was grinning, not apologetic at all, holding eye contact like she knew exactly how flustered he was. “I’m Jules. My dad worked the line out of Pueblo for 40 years. Haven’t seen one of those spikes since I was a kid, helping him polish his collection.”
Manny grunted, nodded, tried to act like his heart wasn’t hammering against his ribcage. He watched her lean in further, her shoulder brushing his bicep when she pointed to the framed photo of him on the locomotive. She was close enough that he could smell the hint of peppermint in her lip balm, hear her laugh over the tinny twang of the 90s country cover band playing at the end of the block.
“Saw you out fixing your fence last Tuesday,” she said, tapping the photo of him in his engineer uniform. “Spent two hours rehanging that end post because it was an inch off level. Knew you had to be a rail guy. Perfectionist to a fault.”
Manny blinked. He’d thought no one was paying attention. He’d spent that afternoon muttering to himself, convinced he was wasting time, and she’d been watching from her yard. The knot of resistance in his chest loosened a little, just a fraction, and he found himself talking before he could stop himself, telling her about the time he’d had to stop the train 10 miles outside of Silverton because a herd of elk was camped on the tracks, about how the mountains looked at sunrise from the cab of a locomotive, pink and orange and so bright they hurt your eyes.
She listened, leaning against the table, never looking away, asking questions when he paused, laughing at the elk story. When a group of kids ran past chasing a dog with a donut in its mouth, she stumbled a little, catching herself on his forearm, and he didn’t pull away this time.
“Got my dad’s old pocket watch at my place,” she said, once the kids were gone, her voice lower than it had been before, her thumb brushing the edge of his flannel sleeve for half a second before she pulled back. “He carried it on every shift. Still ticks. Wanna come over, take a look, have another beer? No pressure.”
Manny’s first instinct was to say no, make up an excuse about a leaky faucet he’d been meaning to fix, about a model train build he needed to finish. He opened his mouth to say it, then looked at her, the corner of her mouth tilted up like she was waiting for him to chicken out, and he shut it again. He thought about the empty house waiting for him, the quiet that had gotten heavier every year since Elena died, the way it felt to talk to someone who actually cared what he had to say.
“Sure,” he said, rough around the edges. “Sounds good.”
He packed up his table 20 minutes later, walked home long enough to change out of his dusty flannel and splash cold water on his face, grabbed the six pack of IPA he’d been saving for a special occasion, and knocked on Jules’ door.
She opened it holding a brass pocket watch strung on a leather cord, the warm glow of her kitchen light spilling out over the porch steps, the smell of chocolate chip cookies drifting out behind her. Manny stepped across the threshold, and didn’t look back.
