Manny Ruiz, 58, retired high school woodshop teacher, leans against the cinder block wall of the local VFW hall, his work boots caked in gravel dust, a half-empty cup of lukewarm sweet tea in one hand. He’d only come to the annual town chili cookoff because three of his former students begged him to enter his brisket chili, the recipe his wife had tweaked for 22 years before she died of ovarian cancer eight years prior. He’d avoided the event the last seven years, hated the prying small talk, the way people’s voices softened like he was a broken thing to pity. The air reeks of smoked paprika, burnt hot dogs, and cheap beer, a Merle Haggard track warbling from crackling speakers strung above the folding tables.
He pushes off the wall when his tea runs out, heading for the cooler stacked with Shiner Bock by the snack table. He reaches for a can at the same time a woman does, their knuckles brushing hard enough that he feels the rough callus on her index finger, the kind you get from turning thousands of book pages over decades. He pulls his hand back like he’s been burned, then recognizes her: Clara Hale, 56, the new town librarian, ex-wife of his former high school principal, the man who’d cut his woodshop budget three years running until Manny threatened to go to the school board. He’d only spoken to her twice before, both times when she’d snuck him cash out of her own purse to buy sandpaper and safety goggles for kids who couldn’t afford their own. She’s wearing a faded Willie Nelson tee under an unbuttoned gray flannel, her gray-streaked brown hair pulled back in a messy braid, no lipstick, just a faint smudge of chapstick on her lower lip. She laughs, a low warm sound that cuts through the crowd noise, and holds the can out to him. “You looked like you needed this more than I do. Your chili’s got the line around the building, from what I hear.”
He takes the can, his fingertips brushing hers again, this time not quite an accident. He’s suddenly hyper aware of how close she’s standing, her shoulder almost brushing his bicep, the faint smell of lavender hand cream mixing with smoke from the chili smokers behind them, not sweet enough to be cloying, just soft. He feels a twist in his chest, half desire, half sharp familiar guilt. For eight years he’d not so much as flirted with another woman, convinced even looking at someone else was a betrayal of the wife who’d stuck by him when he worked 60-hour weeks to keep the woodshop open, who’d forgiven him for missing their 30th anniversary dinner to finish a custom wheelchair ramp for a student with cerebral palsy. He shifts his weight, his scuffed boot tapping her ankle by accident, and she doesn’t step back. “Heard you hung up those cutting boards I made for the food bank in the library display case,” he says, his voice rougher than he means it to be. She nods, leaning in a little so she can hear him over a group of guys yelling about the football game on the bar TV. “They’re beautiful. I tracked your name from the tag on the back. I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d teach a beginner woodworking class at the library for retirees. Half the people I know complain they don’t have anything to do all day but watch Fox News and yell at their grandkids.”
He snorts, taking a long sip of cold beer, bubbles fizzing against his tongue. He’s about to say no, to make an excuse about having too many half-finished birdhouses and rocking chairs stacked in his garage, when the emcee grabs the microphone, yelling his name over the speaker to announce he’s won first place in the chili contest. The crowd around him cheers, a group of his former students clap him on the back so hard he almost spills his beer, and when he turns back to Clara, she’s holding a paper plate with a slice of pecan pie on it, held out like a trophy. “Saw on your little bio card by the chili pot that pecan’s your favorite,” she says, grinning, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I snuck it before the rest of the crowd mobbed the dessert table.”
He takes the plate, their hands lingering for three full beats, no excuses, no pulling away. The guilt that’s sat heavy in his chest for eight years doesn’t disappear exactly, but it softens, like a knot coming loose. He tells her about his wife, about missing the anniversary dinner, about how he’d felt like he owed her his full attention even after she was gone. She tells him about her ex-husband, about how he’d left her for a 28-year-old math teacher four years prior, about how she’d moved to this small town because she didn’t want anyone to know how embarrassed she’d been to be left for someone half her age. They talk for another hour, leaning against the wall, their shoulders pressed together now, no space between them, as the crowd thins out and the sun dips below the oak trees lining the parking lot.
When she leaves, she scribbles her phone number on a napkin from the snack bar, folding it small and shoving it into the pocket of his work jeans, telling him to call if he wants to talk more about the woodworking class, or just get pancakes at the Main Street diner tomorrow morning. He stands there for a minute after she drives away, holding the half-empty beer can in one hand, the empty paper plate in the other, the napkin crinkling against his thigh through his pocket. He tucks his free hand into his jeans pocket, pressing his fingers against the napkin to make sure it’s still there, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t cross the street to avoid the diner on his walk home.
