Rudy Galvan, 52, had spent the last eight years avoiding neighborhood block parties like they carried the West Nile virus he’d once gotten from a mosquito bite while repairing a downed power line outside Waco. The retired grid lineman only caved this time when his next-door neighbor threatened to stop dropping off free tamales every Sunday if he skipped, plus the local fire station was smoking 12 briskets for the crowd, and Rudy hadn’t had good smoked brisket since before his ex-wife left him for a realtor who wore tailored polos and couldn’t change a flat tire. He leaned against the gnarled trunk of a live oak at the edge of the cul-de-sac, a sweating Shiner Bock in one hand, flannel sleeves rolled up to show the silvery, four-inch scar snaking across his left forearm from the 2017 pole fall that pushed him into early retirement. He pointedly ignored his ex, who was laughing too loud at something her polo-clad husband said by the bounce house, the neon pink of her swimsuit coverup stinging his eyes even in the golden dusk light.
The air reeked of citronella candles, hickory smoke, and the sweet, overripe smell of peaches from the orchard a mile down the road. The summer heatwave that had knocked out power for 300,000 Texans two weeks prior was finally breaking, but the temperature still hovered at 87 degrees, and a fine sheen of sweat coated the back of Rudy’s neck. He was half considering ditching the party and heading home to rewatch a bootlegged copy of *Lonesome Dove* when he heard a sharp yelp, and a woman stumbled into his side, her hand slapping flat against the scar on his forearm. A paper plate of peach cobbler tilted in her other hand, warm, syrupy juice dripping down onto Rudy’s wrist, sticky and sweet against his sun-warmed skin. He caught the plate before it hit the dirt, his other hand wrapping loosely around her elbow to steady her, his calloused fingers brushing the soft, sunburned skin of her upper arm.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said, pulling back just far enough to look up at him, her hazel eyes wide and crinkled at the corners with embarrassed laughter. She was in her late 40s, chestnut hair pulled back in a loose braid, a smudge of flour on her left cheek, wearing a faded Johnny Cash t-shirt and cutoff jean shorts. Rudy usually flinched when anyone touched his scar—strangers always stared, asked prying questions, treated it like a trophy instead of the reminder of three months of physical therapy and the day he realized his ex didn’t give a damn if he lived or died. He didn’t flinch this time. “I tripped over that damn skateboard the Miller kid left in the middle of the road. I’m Maren, I moved into the blue bungalow two blocks over three months ago. I run the downtown public library’s used book sale.”
Rudy nodded, passing her the plate back, his thumb brushing the edge of her hand for half a second when he did. He’d seen her walking her tri-colored beagle past his house a handful of times, but he’d never stopped to talk, always ducked inside before she could wave. “Rudy. Fix old lawnmowers for extra cash. Retired lineman.” He paused, wiping the peach syrup off his wrist with the back of his other hand, before adding, “Cobbler smells good. You make it?”
Maren grinned, leaning against the oak tree next to him, their shoulders six inches apart, close enough that he could smell lavender laundry detergent and baked peach on her shirt. “My grandma’s recipe. I brought three pans, I’ve already had three old ladies ask me for the card. I noticed the stack of old Louis L’Amour paperbacks on your porch last week when I was walking Mabel. I’ve got a whole shelf of them at my place, plus the remastered Blu-ray of *Red River* I found at a garage sale last month. No one’s wanted to watch it with me yet.”
Rudy’s chest tightened. He’d spent six years turning down every half-hearted date offer from friends of friends, convinced every woman who showed an interest was either gonna ask him to fix something for free or leave the second they realized he’d rather stay home and watch westerns than go to fancy dinners. His eyes darted over to his ex, who was staring at him now, her eyebrows raised like she was shocked anyone would talk to him. The old, familiar anger bubbled up, but it was softer than usual, edged out by the way Maren was looking at him, like she actually cared what he said, not just waiting for her turn to talk.
They talked for an hour, standing so close their shoulders brushed every time one of them shifted their weight. She told him her ex-husband was a corporate lawyer who’d cheated on her with his paralegal, that she’d moved to Austin to get away from the constant reminders of their 15 year marriage, that she loved the way the oak trees dripped moss in the spring. He told her about the time he’d spent three days stuck in a snowstorm repairing a power line outside Amarillo, about the beagle he’d had when he was a kid that ran away and never came back, about how he still slept in the same worn flannel sheets he’d had before he got married. He didn’t realize he was smiling until his cheeks started to hurt.
When the sun dipped below the horizon and the fire department started packing up their smokers, Maren stacked her leftover tupperwares of cobbler in a canvas bag, looking up at him through her lashes. “You wanna come over tonight? I’ve got vanilla ice cream to go with the cobbler, and that Blu-ray. No pressure, if you’ve got plans.”
Rudy hesitated for half a second, the old voice in his head screaming that it was a trap, that she’d get bored of him by the end of the movie. He looked over at his ex, who was gathering her kids’ toys from the grass, not even paying attention to him anymore, and the voice went quiet. “Yeah,” he said, taking the canvas bag from her to carry to her car, their hands brushing when she passed it over, her fingers lingering against his for two full seconds before she pulled away. “I got a bottle of bourbon stashed under my sink I’ve been saving for a reason I couldn’t figure out. I’ll bring that. Gonna shower off the smoke first, I’ll be over in 45 minutes.”
Maren nodded, unlocking her beat-up Honda Civic, sliding into the driver’s seat. She rolled the window down before she pulled out, grinning at him. “Leave the cowboy hat on. It looks good on you.”
Rudy stood in the middle of the cul-de-sac as she drove away, licking the last of the peach syrup off his wrist, the faint outline of her hand still warm on his forearm. He didn’t even glance over at his ex when he turned to walk home, his boots thudding against the asphalt, the bottle of bourbon already weighing light and promising in the back of his mind.
