Raymundo “Ray” Ruiz, 62, retired border patrol canine handler, leaned against the pocked cinder block wall of the West Texas VFW, swirling a slushy frozen margarita in a dented styrofoam cup. His work boots were caked in caliche dust from the 20-minute drive from the 10-acre ranch he rented outside town, where he lived alone with his 10-year-old German shepherd, Mila, and spent most days restoring a 1987 Ford F-150 he’d pulled from a junkyard six months prior. His biggest flaw? He’d spent four years, ever since his wife Marisol died of ovarian cancer, turning down every social invitation he got, convinced letting anyone new into his orbit was a betrayal of the 34 years they’d had together. The only reason he was at the annual tamale festival at all was because his old patrol partner, Jesse, had showed up at his door that morning with a six-pack of his favorite Pacifico and practically dragged him out, saying if he holed up on the ranch one more weekend he’d turn into a hermit for good.
He’d been avoiding the cluster of old coworkers by the beer tent for an hour, because every time one of them waved him over, he could see them nudging their widowed sisters or cousins in his direction, and he had no interest in awkward small talk about how “well he was holding up.” The mariachi band by the food stalls was playing so loud the cinder blocks under his shoulder hummed, and the air smelled like smoked pork, dried chiles, and coconut sunscreen from the teens running around with neon snow cones. He was just about to slip out to his truck when he heard a sharp yelp, and a woman tripped over the leg of a folding chair at his feet, grabbing his bicep to steady herself.
Her hand was warm even through the thin cotton of his faded patrol-branded work shirt, and he caught a whiff of vanilla lotion and grilled corn on her clothes. She was 58, dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, wearing a wrinkled linen sundress the color of sage, chipped cherry-red polish on her nails. He recognized her immediately: Elena Mendez, ex-wife of Jim Hale, his former station supervisor, the man who’d spent 10 years trying to get him fired for “being too lenient” with migrants caught crossing the desert with small kids. He hadn’t seen her in 12 years, not since she’d moved to Austin with Jim after he got a regional promotion.
She laughed, brushing a strand of hair off her face, and didn’t let go of his arm for three full beats, like she was making sure she was steady first. “Ray Ruiz, right? I used to leave empanadas in the break room fridge, and you’d steal every single one before the day shift even clocked in.” He felt his face warm, the way he used to when he was a 28-year-old rookie, secretly thinking she was way too good for Jim, who’d yell at her for taking too long to bring his lunch to the station. He should have walked away right then. Jim had badmouthed him to every new hire for years, and getting close to his ex felt like crossing a line he’d spent his whole career adhering to. But when she sat down on the folding chair next to him, her knee brushing his every time someone pushed past to get to the food stalls, he didn’t move.
She told him she’d divorced Jim eight months prior, left Austin because he’d spent 20 years controlling every part of her life, right down to what she cooked and who she was allowed to be friends with. She’d moved back to her grandma’s old cottage on the edge of town, the one with the overgrown sunflower patch out front, and was here selling her grandma’s red pork tamales to raise money for the local animal shelter. He told her about Marisol, about Mila, about the F-150 he was fixing up, and she didn’t give him that pitying look everyone else did when he mentioned his wife. She just nodded, and said she knew what it was like to miss someone so much you didn’t want to let anyone new take up space in your life.
When the fireworks started, everyone surged toward the parking lot, and she stepped closer to him, her shoulder pressed firm to his, her arm brushing his as she pointed up at the red bursts of light above the VFW roof. He could taste cinnamon on her breath when she turned to say something to him over the noise of the crowd, from the churro she’d been eating half an hour earlier. A group of teens ran past, and she grabbed his hand to avoid getting knocked over, her fingers lacing through his for a second before she started to pull away, like she thought she’d crossed a line. He didn’t let go.
She told him the fence around her vegetable garden was falling apart, that javelinas kept getting in and eating her tomato plants, and she’d pay him to fix it in carnitas and frozen margaritas, no cash needed. He hesitated for half a second, the voice in the back of his head screaming that this was wrong, that he was betraying Marisol, that Jim would lose his mind if he found out. But then she ran her thumb over the scar on the back of his hand, the one he got when his first canine partner bit him during training, and said she’d always thought he was the only decent guy at that whole station.
When the last firework faded, the crowd cheering around them, she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and he didn’t pull away. He led her through the scattered folding chairs and crumpled beer cups to his beat-up pickup, holding the passenger door open for her, and reached across the seat to crank the AC on before he climbed in.
