Ray Mendez, 62, retired CBP K9 handler, sat slouched at a weathered picnic table at the west side El Paso beer garden, sweating through the collar of his faded border patrol hoodie even as the October desert air bit at his knuckles. He’d avoided all family and old friend gatherings for seven years after his wife Elena died, convinced everyone blamed him for missing her early ovarian cancer signs, too wrapped up in training his K9 partner to notice she’d been exhausted for months. He only started coming to this spot six months prior, after his partner passed, leaving him with nothing but an empty dog bed and a fridge full of leftover frozen kibble he couldn’t bear to throw away.
The mariachi trio tucked by the food truck hit a brassy trumpet note that made his teeth rattle, and he lifted his Shiner Bock to take a sip when a shadow fell across his table. He looked up, and his throat went dry. He’d recognize that crooked smile anywhere, even if the last time he’d seen it, its owner was 14, covered in glitter at Elena’s 40th birthday party. Lila, Elena’s first cousin, 22 years younger than his late wife, leaned in to hug him before he could stand, her hair smelling like jasmine and sunscreen, her forearm brushing the scar across his left bicep he’d gotten from a border fence cut in 2007. She sat down across from him, so close their knees knocked under the table when she shifted to pull a plate of smoked brisket and pickled okra onto the wooden surface between them.
She told him she’d moved back to El Paso two weeks prior, leaving her physical therapy clinic in Austin to open a small pediatric practice for kids with mobility issues, no husband, no kids, just a 10-year-old rescue chihuahua named Taco. She talked fast, the same way she did when she was a kid, gesturing with her hands so wide she almost knocked over his beer twice, her eyes locked on his like she was actually listening when he mumbled about volunteering at the animal shelter three days a week. Every time their knees brushed, he felt a jolt he hadn’t felt since he was 20, and he kept telling himself he should leave, that this was wrong, that Lila was family, that Elena would roll over in her grave if she saw him noticing how the terracotta of her lipstick matched the sunset streaking the sky behind her, how her jeans fit tight across her thighs when she leaned forward to grab a piece of okra.
The guilt coiled tight in his stomach, warring with the warm buzz of the beer and the way she laughed at his terrible joke about the shelter’s grumpy old tabby cat. She reached for another okra at the exact same time he did, her fingers brushing his, and she didn’t pull away. She held his gaze, her thumb brushing the back of his knuckle for half a second, and said she’d always had a crush on him when she was a kid, that Elena used to tease her about it, that Elena never once blamed him for her getting sick, that she’d talked about how proud she was of his work right up until the end.
Ray froze, his throat tight, the guilt he’d carried for 8 years feeling lighter all of a sudden. He’d spent so long convinced everyone saw him as the man who let his wife die, that he’d forgotten how it felt to be seen as just Ray, not the grieving widower, not the guy who messed up. He didn’t pull his hand away when she laced her fingers through his, her palms calloused from lifting kids in therapy, warm, steady. He didn’t care that the couple at the next table was glancing over, didn’t care that some distant cousin might see them and spread gossip, didn’t care that a small part of him still felt like he was betraying Elena.
They stayed until the beer garden closed, the mariachi trio packing up their instruments, the food truck turning off its grills. He walked her to her beat-up Subaru, and she leaned up to kiss his cheek, her lips soft against his stubble, before she opened the driver’s side door. She told him she’d text him in the morning to set up coffee, no pressure, no expectations, just to talk more.
He drove home with the windows rolled down, the cool desert air whipping through his hair, a George Strait song he and Elena had danced to at their wedding coming on the radio. He didn’t turn it off. He pulled into his driveway, checked his phone, and there was already a text from her, a blurry photo of the half-eaten plate of okra they’d left on the table, with a winky face typed below it. He smiled, typed back a reply teasing her for stealing the last piece, and leaned back against his seat, the porch light of his house glowing warm through the windshield.
