Manny Rios, 52, vintage pickup restorer, showed up to the Newport Volunteer Fire Department’s summer BBQ only because his 19-year-old apprentice practically shoved him out the shop door that afternoon. He’d spent three years as a self-imposed hermit after leaving Portland, his construction career, and his cheating ex-wife behind, convinced small town social events were just high school drama with cheaper beer and more wrinkles. He owed the fire crew, though—they’d bailed him out of a small electrical blaze in his converted barn shop back in March, so he bit the bullet, threw on his faded 2019 Sturgis hoodie even though the sun hit 72 degrees, and drove over in his half-restored 1965 Ford F100.
He grabbed a paper plate piled high with oak-smoked brisket, a cold Modelo from the galvanized steel cooler, and claimed a folding chair tucked in the far corner, as far from the loud crowd and the bouncy house full of screaming kids as he could get. He’d just taken his first bite of brisket, fatty and salty and perfectly smoked, when a bare arm brushed his left bicep, warm and soft, the faint scent of jasmine and saddle soap curling into his nose. He looked up, half-ready to snap at whoever was crowding his space, and froze.
It was Lila Grimes, Todd Grimes’ younger half-sister. Todd was the contractor who’d stiffed him $1200 on a 1968 Chevy C10 restoration six months prior, the guy Manny had sworn to never speak to, never do work for, never even make eye contact with for the rest of his time in town. He’d seen Lila exactly once before, when she’d dropped off Todd’s truck for the initial estimate, her dark wavy hair streaked with silver, calloused hands covered in horse hoof dust, a faded Fleetwood Mac tee hanging loose over her shoulders. She ran the local horse rescue 10 miles outside of town, he knew that much.
“Hey, truck guy,” she said, grinning, holding up her own beer. Her voice was lower than he remembered, rough around the edges like she smoked a cigarette every now and then, which she did, he noticed, a crumpled pack of Camels sticking out the back pocket of her cutoff denim shorts. “Heard you’ve been avoiding this place like the plague. Smart, most of these people will corner you for 45 minutes to complain about their lawn care.” She dragged a second folding chair right next to his, so close their knees bumped when she sat down, and didn’t move away when he jolted a little at the contact. She held eye contact so long he had to glance down at his brisket first, his ears going warm, a sensation he hadn’t felt since he was 16 and fumbling through his first makeout session in the back of his dad’s pickup.
“I also wanted to tell you I made Todd pay that bill,” she said, picking at the label on her beer bottle, her thumb brushing the cold glass over and over. “Found out he stiffed you last week, threatened to tell our mom he’d been scamming local small businesses if he didn’t drop a check in your mailbox the next day. Guy’s still terrified of her, even at 47.” Manny blinked—he’d gotten the anonymous check two days prior, had assumed Todd had just gotten scared Manny would put a lien on his house, had no idea it was her doing.
He spent the next 40 minutes talking to her, forgetting all about the brisket going cold on his plate, forgetting about the crowd, forgetting he’d planned to leave after 20 minutes max. She told him about the 12 rescue horses she was caring for that summer, about the time one kicked a hole in her barn wall last winter, about how she’d been tracking down a vintage International Scout for years to haul hay and supplies. He told her about the Sturgis trip he’d taken alone the year after his divorce, about dropping a transmission on his foot and spending three days hobbling around his shop on a crutch, about how he still missed his old golden retriever that passed away two years prior. She laughed at his terrible Ford vs Chevy joke, the sound loud and genuine, and when she leaned in to light a cigarette, the flame from her gold Zippo catching the freckles across her nose, he had to fight the urge to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
The conflict hit when Todd stumbled over, drunk on cheap beer, his face red, yelling about how Lila had no business talking to “the crook that overcharged me for a garbage paint job.” Lila stood up so fast her chair tipped over behind her, stepping right up to Todd so they were toe to toe, and told him to shut his mouth and get lost before she told every single person at the BBQ that he still slept with the tattered teddy bear he’d had since he was 4. Todd sputtered, looked like he was gonna argue, then glanced at Manny’s calloused, scarred knuckles, thought better of it, and stumbled off toward the parking lot.
Lila turned back to Manny, grinning, and leaned in so close her lips almost brushed his ear, her breath warm against his skin. “Wanna get out of here? I got that 1967 Scout I told you about sitting in my barn, needs a full overhaul. I’ll pay you half up front, cash, no arguments. And I make a mean green chili, if you’re hungry for something better than cold brisket.”
Manny didn’t even hesitate. He tossed his half-eaten plate in the nearby trash can, grabbed his half-empty beer, and followed her toward her beat-up Subaru Outback, the one with the custom license plate that read SCOUTGRL. When she reached for the driver’s side door handle, her hand brushed his, and he didn’t pull away.