Raymundo Garza, 62, retired border patrol K9 handler, stood at the edge of the annual small-town Texas chili cookoff, work boots planted in dust that still smelled like last weekend’s slow, warm rain. He’d dragged himself out only because his 78-year-old neighbor had begged him to judge the “hotter than hell” category, and he couldn’t say no to a man who’d once helped him drag a 300-pound feral hog carcass off his cabin porch at 2 a.m. His biggest flaw, he’d admit only if he was three deep in cheap bourbon, was that he’d walled himself off so tight after his wife, Maria, died 8 years prior, even the cashier at the grocery store gave him a wide berth to avoid his gruff one-word answers. He told himself he liked it that way. Less small talk, less chance he’d say something stupid, less chance he’d feel that sharp, hollow twist in his chest when someone’s laugh or perfume reminded him of Maria.
The sun was dipping low, gilding the wispy tops of the live oaks and turning the red and white event tents pink around the edges, when she slid into the empty spot next to him at the splintered pine picnic table. Elara Voss, 54, the new town librarian, the same woman who’d stared daggers at him at the VFW book drive three weeks prior when he’d grumbled that half the young adult novels on the table were “soft crap that wouldn’t teach a kid how to change a flat tire or gut a deer.” He’d assumed she hated him. He shifted an inch to his left to move down the bench, but her elbow brushed his bicep first, warm through the thin cotton of his faded border patrol hoodie, and he froze.
“Your brisket chili’s beating the mayor’s by 12 points,” she said, nodding at the whiteboard propped up by the judging tent, where volunteers were scribbling in scores in neon marker. She held a flimsy paper plate stacked high with cornbread, and the sweet, buttery scent wrapped around him, cutting through the heavy tang of smoked meat, cumin, and chili powder hanging in the air. He’d forgotten what homemade cornbread smelled like, Maria used to bake a pan every Sunday, slathered with honey butter that dripped down your wrist if you bit into it too fast. He grunted, not sure what to say. He’d expected snark, not a casual update on his contest standing.
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Thick silver streaks ran through her dark curly hair, pulled back in a loose braid that fell over one shoulder, and she had a tiny, pale scar along her left jaw, like she’d been clipped by a bike chain as a kid. Her nails were chipped, painted a deep forest green, and when she passed him a muffin from her plate, her fingers brushed his, calloused at the tips, like she worked with her hands more than just stamping library book due dates. “I saw you fix that 10-year-old foster kid’s bike on Main last week,” she said, as if she could read his thought. “You’re a hell of a lot softer than you act.”
He felt his neck heat up under the brim of his worn cowboy hat. That was the last thing he wanted anyone in town to know. He took a bite of the cornbread, and it was perfect, just sweet enough, crispy at the edges, still warm enough to melt the pad of butter she’d slathered on top. “Used to fix bikes for the kids on the border when I was working,” he said, before he could stop himself. “When their parents couldn’t afford to take them to the shop, or didn’t have the papers to risk going into town.” He’d never told anyone in town that. He’d never told anyone anything about his old job, not really, not the parts that weren’t in the retirement ceremony speech.
She leaned in a little, close enough he could smell the vanilla and sandalwood in her shampoo, and he tensed up, half ready to make an excuse to head back to his cabin, half wanting to lean in closer to catch more of that scent. He hated that split feeling, that war between the part of him that wanted to stay shut off, that felt like even talking to another woman was a betrayal of the 32 years he’d had with Maria, and the part of him that was so lonely some nights he’d talk to the scrawny orange stray cat that hung around his porch like it was an old war buddy.
“I coordinate after-school programs for the foster kids in town,” she said, nodding at the group of kids running around the open field chasing a scruffy border collie mix, their shouts carrying over the twang of the country band playing off by the beer tent. “Most of their bikes are busted, no one to fix them. Was gonna ask if you’d be willing to help with a repair day next month. But I was scared you’d tell me to go to hell.” She laughed, low and warm, and the sound hit him square in the chest, like a punch he didn’t see coming, soft instead of hard.
He stared at her, and she held his gaze, no shyness, no irritation, just a soft little smile playing on her full lips, a silver hoop earring catching the last of the sun as she tilted her head. He’d spent 8 years telling himself he didn’t deserve anything good after Maria died, that he was supposed to spend the rest of his days alone, fixing up his cabin, drinking beer on the porch, not bothering anyone. But right then, with the sun going down, the sound of a Johnny Cash cover drifting over the crowd, the taste of cornbread still on his tongue, he realized that wasn’t fair. Not to him, not to Maria, who’d always told him he was too damn hard on himself, that he deserved to be happy even when things went to shit.
“Only if you bring the cornbread,” he said, and he surprised himself by smiling, just a small one, under his hat.
She grinned, and reached over to clap him on the shoulder, her hand staying there a beat longer than necessary, warm and solid through his hoodie. “Deal. I’ll even bring the wildflower honey you like. Saw you buy three jars of it at the farmers market last Saturday, you hid them in your cooler like you were smuggling contraband.”
He blinked, surprised she’d noticed. He’d never noticed anyone noticing him, not in years. He finished his last sip of beer, crumpled the aluminum can in his calloused hand, and watched as a kid ran past, tripping over a tree root, and she jumped up to help him brush the dust off his jeans, her laugh carrying over the noise of the crowd.
He pulled out his beat-up old iPhone, typed the bike repair day into his calendar, and saved it, the screen smudged with grease from fixing his truck that morning. He didn’t even mind that the orange stray cat would have to eat its can of tuna alone that night.
