Manny Ruiz, 62, retired U.S. Border Patrol canine handler, stood at the edge of the Las Cruces annual chili cookoff with his 11-year-old German shepherd Zora curled at his scuffed work boots. He’d entered his grandmother’s green chili recipe on a dare from his vet, who’d warned Zora was growing too sedentary as her eyesight faded, and Manny had run out of excuses to get her out of the house. He kept his shoulders hunched, hat pulled low, avoiding small talk with the neighbors he’d lived next to for 18 years. His biggest flaw, one he’d picked up across 30 years of catching people lying to his face to cross the border, was assuming everyone had an angle, that no kindness came without a string tied to it. He’d lived by that rule since his wife Elara died of ovarian cancer seven years prior, turning down every dinner invitation, every casserole drop-off, every attempt to pull him out of the adobe he’d fixed up with his own two hands.
He bent down to adjust Zora’s faded red bandana, knocking a glass jar of peach salsa off the rickety folding table next to him before he could catch it. The jar shattered, bright orange salsa splattering all down the front of the cream linen shirt of the woman standing on the other side of the table. Manny froze, already bracing for anger, for a demand to pay for the shirt, for a lecture about being careless. Instead, the woman laughed, a warm, throaty sound that cut through the noise of mariachi music and kids screaming chasing a piñata. She brushed a fleck of salsa off her cheek with the back of her hand, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “Don’t sweat it. I already had barbecue sauce, chili, and cotton candy stains on this thing. Was gonna use it as a rag next week anyway.”
She leaned in a foot closer than most people dared get to him, the scent of jasmine hand lotion and roasted green chiles wrapping around him as she flicked a chunk of peach off the front of his navy flannel shirt. Her forearm brushed his bicep for half a second, warm and solid through the thin fabric, and Manny’s ears went red, a reaction he hadn’t had since he was a teenager sneaking Elara into his parents’ basement. He recognized her: Clara Bennett, 58, ran the only used bookstore on Main Street, the one he walked past every morning with Zora, the one he’d never stepped foot inside because he’d convinced himself he didn’t have time for leisure. She knelt down, holding her hand out slow for Zora to sniff, and Manny tensed, ready to pull her back if Zora snapped—Zora never let strangers touch her, had only ever let Elara and Manny get close to her. Instead, Zora nuzzled her palm, then leaned into her scratches, her tail thumping against the gravel hard enough to kick up dust.
Manny’s chest felt tight, half frustration at how easily Zora had warmed up to her, half stupid, fluttering curiosity he hadn’t felt in years. He kept waiting for the ask: for her to mention she needed help fixing her fence, or moving boxes of books, or that she wanted a donation for some local fundraiser. It never came. She just talked, telling him about the new shipment of western novels she’d gotten in the week prior, about the stray cat that slept on her bookstore porch, about how she’d seen him walking Zora every morning for six months and had been wondering if he ever did anything other than walk the dog and go to the vet. He found himself answering, telling her about Zora’s failing eyesight, about how he’d gotten the chili recipe from his grandma who’d grown up in Chihuahua, about how he’d spent the last three years restoring a 1972 Ford F-150 in his garage.
When the cookoff emcee announced Manny had won second place in the green chili category, he blinked like he’d misheard. Clara cheered louder than anyone else in the crowd, grabbing his arm to shake it, then hugging him quick before he could process what was happening. Her chest pressed against his for half a second, warm and soft, and he could feel the faint dampness of the salsa on her shirt through his flannel. The prize was a $25 gift card to her bookstore, and she held it out to him, her fingers brushing his as he took it. “You gonna use that, or are you gonna let it collect dust on your kitchen counter like every other gift people give you?” she teased, her head tilted to the side, holding eye contact a beat longer than polite.
His first instinct was to make an excuse, to say Zora needed to get home, that he didn’t read books, that he had work to do on the truck. He looked down at Zora, who was now sitting at Clara’s feet, her head resting on Clara’s boot, looking up at him like he was the dumbest man alive. “I was gonna get pie at the diner down the street after this. You wanna come? Zora’s allowed under the booth, the owner owes me a favor.”
Manny nodded before he could talk himself out of it. An hour later they were sat in the back booth of the diner, Zora under the table with her head on Clara’s foot, sharing a slice of peach pie with extra whipped cream. Clara stole a bite of the leftover chili he’d packed in a Tupperware, moaning loud enough that the waitress looked over and grinned. “That’s the best green chili I’ve ever had in my life. You gotta bring me a jar sometime.” Manny teased her that she was just saying that because he’d ruined her shirt, and she kicked his ankle lightly under the table, the toe of her cowboy boot bumping his calf. “I’ve been saying that about you for six months. I just didn’t have an excuse to walk up and tell you.”
The tight, heavy knot he’d carried in his chest since the day Elara died loosened, just a little, and he found himself smiling, a real smile, not the tight polite one he gave cashiers and the vet. He reached into the cooler he’d brought with him, pulled out the extra jar of green chili he’d packed that morning, and slid it across the Formica table to her, his knuckles brushing hers for three slow, deliberate beats before he pulled his hand back.
