Hector Ruiz, 62, spent 38 years climbing power poles for the Hill Country Electric Co-op before retiring three years back, and his worst flaw by his own admission is holding a grudge longer than he holds a grudge against the Austin City Council for raising his hunting license fees. He’d spent 28 years avoiding Marnie Cole, ever since his first wife walked out in 1995, convinced Marnie had ratted him out for skipping his mother-in-law’s 70th birthday to fish the Guadalupe with his buddies. He’d lost half his savings in that divorce, sold the first C10 he’d ever restored to cover legal fees, and had written Marnie off entirely, even when his second wife Linda invited her to their annual chili cookoffs, even after Linda died of breast cancer in 2020 and Marnie dropped off a crockpot of posole on his porch with a note he’d thrown away unread.
The August street dance in downtown Fredericksburg was the last place he expected to run into her. The air smelled like grilled jalapeño sausage, cold Shiner Bock, and the faint sweet tang of cedar smoke drifting off the nearby hill country ranches. A local bluegrass band was tearing through a cover of “Amarillo by Morning” on the temporary stage, kids zipped around on scooters between the picnic tables, and Hector was leaned against the bed of his 1972 C10, sipping a beer and pretending he didn’t notice the group of line dancers 20 feet away, where he knew Marnie usually showed up every third Saturday.
He’d just tilted his head back to finish his beer when she slammed into his side, yelping. Two styrofoam cups of sweet tea sloshed over the edge, one spilling a cold streak down the side of his worn work boot, the other dribbling down the front of her faded Willie Nelson tee. “Dammit, sorry,” she said, laughing as she stepped back, swiping at the tea on her shirt with the back of her hand. “Some kid left his scooter right in the middle of the walkway, I didn’t see it till I was tripping over it.”
Hector’s first instinct was to snap, to tell her to watch where she was going, then he met her eyes, and the words died in his throat. It was Marnie. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, pulled back in a messy braid, there were faint laugh lines around her hazel eyes, and she was wearing scuffed work boots and jeans that fit like she wore them every day lifting feed sacks at the store she ran on the edge of town. He hadn’t been this close to her since 1994, at his ex-wife’s Christmas party. “No harm done,” he said, surprising himself. He wiped at the tea on his boot with the edge of his flannel shirt, tied around his waist against the evening chill.
She grinned, and he felt something tight in his chest loosen, just a little. “Least let me buy you another beer to make up for it. You’re Hector, right? I’m Marnie. I think we’ve lived in the same town 30 years and I’ve never actually talked to you longer than 10 seconds.” She held his gaze, steady, and he felt the tips of his ears get hot, like he was a kid again getting caught skipping school to fish. He nodded, and she turned to head to the beer tent, her hand brushing his arm as she passed, calloused and warm, the contact sending a jolt up his spine he hadn’t felt since Linda was alive.
When she came back with two cold Shiners, she leaned against the truck bed next to him, their shoulders almost touching. “I’ve been meaning to say something for years,” she said, twisting the cap off her beer and handing him the other. His fingers brushed hers when he took it. “Your first wife? She didn’t find out about that fishing trip from me. It was her cousin, the one who worked at the bait shop in New Braunfels. I never would’ve ratted you out. I always thought you were way too good for that woman, anyway.”
Hector froze, his beer halfway to his mouth. 28 years of a grudge, 28 years of avoiding her, of muttering under his breath every time he saw her feed store sign, and it had all been for nothing. He stared at her, and she laughed, soft, not teasing. “I could tell you hated my guts every time we ran into each other. Figured it was that. I avoided you too, because I didn’t want to get yelled at for something I didn’t do. Kinda silly, looking back.”
The band shifted to a slow George Strait track, the fiddle soft and warm, couples drifting onto the makeshift dance floor. She tilted her head at him, her eyes glinting in the string lights strung between the oak trees. “You dance? I haven’t had a partner all night, all the guys my age are either married or too drunk to stand up straight.”
Hector hesitated. He hadn’t danced since Linda’s 50th birthday, three months before she got her diagnosis. But he set his beer down on the truck bed, and took her hand. Her palm was rough from hauling feed, her fingers fit in his like they’d been made to. When he pulled her close, her shoulder pressed against his chest, he could smell coconut shampoo and sweet tea and the faint cedar scent that stuck to her clothes from the store, feel the heat off her skin through her shirt. She rested her other hand on his upper arm, and he found himself swaying with her easily, like he hadn’t missed a day of dancing in his life.
She leaned in a little, her mouth close to his ear so she could be heard over the music. “For what it’s worth,” she said, her voice low, sending a shiver down his spine, “I used to watch you climb those power poles after thunderstorms back in the 90s. Thought you were crazy as hell, but I’d stand in the feed store window and watch you for 20 minutes at a time. Had the biggest crush on you for years. Figured you’d never give me the time of day, though.”
Hector laughed, quiet, and tightened his hold on her waist just a little. The song ended, but neither of them let go. She looked up at him, her cheeks pink, and bit her lower lip, just for a second. “I got a cooler of Shiner back at my place,” she said, nodding toward her beat-up Ford Bronco parked two spots over. “Porch overlooks the creek. No ex-wives, no grudges, no old stories to rehash. You wanna come over?”
Hector nodded, grabbing his beer off the truck bed and tossing the empty can in the nearby trash can. He didn’t even stop to lock the C10, not that anyone in town would steal it. He walked next to her across the grass, his arm brushing hers every other step. He opened the passenger door for her, his palm brushing the small of her back when she climbed in, and for the first time in decades, he didn’t feel like he was rushing to outrun a mistake he didn’t even make.
