Manny Rocha, 62, retired air traffic controller, had only agreed to come to the Newport fire department’s annual fundraiser because his neighbor Jim had shown up at his garage at 4 PM with a six pack of his favorite IPA and refused to leave until Manny grabbed his work boots. He’d spent 32 years calibrating his decisions to eliminate risk, and small town social events had only felt like a minefield since his wife Gloria died eight years prior. He leaned against a splintered pine picnic table, condensation dripping down the side of his beer onto his weathered flannel sleeve, and watched a group of off-duty firefighters yell at each other over a cornhole tournament, already mentally mapping his exit route.
He didn’t see her until she tripped over the leg of a folding chair two feet away. Her hip bumped his thigh first, warm through the thin denim of her jeans, before a smoked brisket slider slid off the tray she was carrying and landed sauce-side down on the toe of his scuffed Red Wing boots. She yelped, fumbling to catch the rest of the tray, and immediately knelt to wipe the sauce off his boot with a crumpled napkin from her pocket. Manny reached down to stop her before he thought better of it, his knuckles brushing hers. Her skin was cold from carrying iced tea pitchers all afternoon, chipped burgundy nail polish catching the golden light of the setting sun, and he yanked his hand back like he’d touched a live wire.
He should have thanked her for the napkin, excused himself, and headed for his beat up 2008 F150 like he’d planned. Instead he found himself offering her a spot on the picnic table bench, passing her his extra napkin to wipe the barbecue sauce off her own jeans. She smelled like lavender shampoo and cinnamon gum, a tiny silver sparrow tattoo peeking out from the cuff of her flannel shirt, and she leaned in when he told her about the time a private pilot tried to land a prop plane at the Albuquerque ARTCC with a pet peacock loose on the dashboard, her shoulder pressing warm and solid into his bicep.
Part of him screamed that he was being stupid, that he was betraying Gloria by even enjoying the sound of another woman’s laugh, that Rick would spot them from across the beer garden and make both their lives miserable. The other part of him, the part that had eaten microwaved meatloaf alone for six nights a week for eight years, that spent most days talking to old CB radios he restored in his garage, didn’t care. He hadn’t felt this light, this unplanned, since before Gloria got sick.
They snuck away from the crowd ten minutes later, climbing onto the tailgate of his truck parked at the edge of the lot, far enough away that the music was just a faint hum and the firelight only gilded the edges of her gray-streaked hair. She told him about growing up on a peach orchard outside Salem, about how she’d left Rick the second she found the texts on his phone, about how she’d moved to Newport because she’d always wanted to live somewhere she could hear the ocean from her front porch. When she laughed at his terrible joke about air traffic controller puns, she tilted her head back, and he hesitated for half a second before reaching over to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just held his gaze, her eyes dark and warm in the dim light.
He heard Rick’s voice then, loud and sharp, yelling her name from the entrance to the beer garden. She rolled her eyes, squeezing his wrist where his hand still rested by her cheek, and leaned in so her breath brushed his ear. “I got a fresh peach pie cooling on my kitchen counter, and my front porch has a better view of the ocean than any spot in this town. You wanna get out of here before he sees us?”
Manny didn’t hesitate. He hopped off the tailgate, opened the passenger side door for her, and turned the key in the ignition before she’d even buckled her seatbelt. He peeled out of the parking lot slow enough not to draw attention, but fast enough that Rick wouldn’t catch up if he tried to follow. The cool coastal wind blew through the open window, carrying the faint scent of lavender shampoo and the distant sound of Rick’s angry shouts fading behind them.
