Javi Mendez, 53, has made custom work boots for Texas ranchers, construction crews, and a handful of touring country singers for 18 years out of his cinder block converted garage shop in East Austin. His biggest flaw, the one his late father ribbed him for every Thanksgiving, is that he holds a grudge like a cowboy holds one against a horse that threw him into a cactus patch. For 12 full years, that grudge has been aimed directly at Clara Bennett, his ex-wife’s former best friend, the woman he was convinced ratted him out for skipping his ex’s sister’s wedding to go fishing off the Gulf Coast with his buddies, the fight that kicked off the end of his 11-year marriage.
He’d avoided her like the flu ever since, even skipping three consecutive neighborhood crawfish boils when he heard she’d man the potato and corn station. This year, he’d caved, because his 16-year-old niece begged to come, and the boil was the biggest social event in their half-mile stretch of residential streets. The sky was pale, hazy blue when they showed up, the air thick with cayenne, boiled shellfish, and cheap beer, and he’d thought he’d be fine, that he could stay on the far end of the folding tables and never make eye contact.
Then the thunder hit, sharp and loud enough to rattle plastic cups on the tables, and the sky opened up all at once, fat warm Texas rain pouring down so hard you could barely see ten feet ahead. His niece ran off with her friends to shelter in a nearby pickup, and Javi bolted for the closest awning, strung above the community garden’s seed exchange stand, only to find Clara already there, her linen button down soaked through at the shoulders, curly brown hair sticking to her neck, holding a half-empty can of citrus seltzer.
There was barely three feet of space under the awning, so he had to stand so close their shoulders brushed every time one shifted. He tensed up immediately, ready to mumble an excuse and run into the rain, but she laughed, a low, throaty sound he didn’t remember her having, and nodded at the beer in his hand. “Figured I’d see you here eventually. You gonna act like I don’t exist for another 12 years, or are we gonna be adults for five minutes?”
He blinked, taken off guard, and before he could answer, a group of college kids carrying a full pot of crawfish ran past, one slamming into Clara’s back hard enough to send her stumbling into him. His hand flew to her waist on instinct, calloused fingers pressing into the soft curve of her hip through damp shirt fabric, and he froze, shocked at how natural her weight felt against his chest. She didn’t pull away, just turned her head to look up at him, dark eyes glinting in the gray half-light of the storm, and he could smell coconut shampoo on her hair, mixed with rain and the faint lingering smell of potting soil from the nursery she ran three blocks from his shop.
“I never told her, you know,” she said, so quiet he almost missed it over rain hammering the metal awning. “About the fishing trip. She went through your phone while you were in the shower, found the charter boat receipt in your text thread with Jake. She didn’t want to admit she was snooping, so she told you I’d seen you posting about it on Facebook. I tried to tell you the week after the divorce was final, but you walked right past me in the grocery store like I was a ghost.”
Javi’s throat went dry. He’d spent 12 years hating her, 12 years making snide comments to his friends whenever her nursery came up, 12 years avoiding every street he thought she might be on, and it had all been for nothing. He was a stubborn, grudge-holding idiot, and the woman standing in front of him, the one he’d written off as backstabbing gossip, was looking at him like she’d been waiting to say that for longer than he could imagine.
She shifted, her arm brushing the front of his worn work jeans, and he noticed the faint scar on her wrist, the one he’d heard she got at 19 rescuing a dog from a storm drain, a story he’d mocked back when he was married as stupidly sentimental. Now it felt like the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. “I always thought you were an idiot, for the record,” she said, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “But I also always thought you were cute. Even when you wore that terrible Hawaiian shirt to your wedding, even when you ignored me at the grocery store, even when you left that one-star review on my nursery’s Facebook page last year because the tomato plant you bought died when you forgot to water it for three weeks.”
He laughed, loud and unexpected, and the tension he’d carried in his shoulders for 12 years melted right out of him. He leaned in, slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted to, and tasted seltzer on her lips when he kissed her, soft at first, then a little firmer when she tilted her head up to kiss him back, her hand coming to rest on his chest, fingers brushing the edge of his beard. The rain was still pouring, people yelled somewhere in the distance, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this light, this unburdened by stupid, useless anger.
The rain slowed to a drizzle ten minutes later, the sun peeking out through the clouds, painting a faint rainbow over the rows of cedar-sided houses down the street. He offered to drive her back to her place so she could change out of her wet clothes, maybe pick up a pepperoni pizza from the corner spot they both loved on the way, no strings attached, no pressure. She said yes, grinning, and took his hand when he offered it to help her step over a puddle that had formed at the edge of the awning.
He walked her to his beat up 2008 Ford F-150, his custom leather boots, the pair he’d stitched for himself last winter, squelching softly in shallow puddles dotting the grass. He opened the passenger door for her, and her fingers brushed his calloused palm when she took the door handle from him, her skin still cool from the summer rain.
