Manny Ruiz is 59, makes his living rebuilding 1970s Honda CB750s out of the cinder block shop behind his house in New Braunfels, Texas. His biggest flaw is that he still talks to his dead wife like she’s sitting on the workbench next to him when he’s tuning carburetors, and he’s turned down every invitation to local community events since she passed four years prior, convinced any fun he has without her is a betrayal. He only agreed to enter the town’s annual chili cookoff this year because his 12-year-old grandson begged him to, said all his friends wanted to try the green chili Manny makes every Christmas. He burned three batches the week leading up to the event, too frazzled to remember if his wife had added cumin first or oregano, and showed up with a cooler full of Shiner Bock fully prepared to leave as soon as judging wrapped.
He’s leaning against the rough pine frame of his booth at 2 PM, sipping a lukewarm beer, ignoring the questions from passersby about his recipe, when she walks up. He recognizes her immediately: Lila, his next door neighbor’s niece, a travel nurse from Portland who’s been in town for three months helping her aunt recover from a total knee replacement. He’s only spoken to her twice before, once when she brought over a plate of lemon bars after he helped her aunt haul a new wheelchair ramp up the porch steps, once when she asked to borrow a half-inch socket wrench to fix her busted truck tailgate. He’d thought about that socket wrench interaction for three nights straight afterward, felt guilty every time, told himself he was being a stupid old man chasing something he had no business touching.
She leans her hip against the edge of his booth, the soft fabric of her flannel shirt brushing his bare elbow, and he feels a jolt run up his arm like he touched a live wire. The smell of coconut shampoo mixes with the thick, smoky scent of pork chili and mesquite drifting across the fairgrounds, and the mariachi band set up by the food trucks is playing a slow, waltzing love song that his wife used to sing while she chopped jalapeños. “Your aunt said you make the best green chili west of the Pecos,” she says, leaning in to sniff the simmering pot, and her breath is warm against the back of his hand where it’s resting on the booth edge. He holds her gaze for three beats too long, then looks down at his scuffed work boots, mumbles something about it being mostly his wife’s recipe, that he probably messed it up.
She reaches for a paper sample cup at the same time he does, their hands brushing, and he feels the rough callus on her index finger, the kind you get from yanking IV tubing loose and lifting patients for 15 years. She doesn’t pull away right away, just grins, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and runs her thumb over the grease-stained callus on his knuckle, the one he got when he dropped an engine block last winter. “Don’t be modest. I’ve been waiting to try this since she first told me about it three years ago.” He hands her the cup, watches her take a bite, watches her eyes flutter shut for half a second, and his throat goes dry. He keeps waiting for the guilt to hit, the sharp twist in his gut that usually comes when he so much as looks at another woman, but it doesn’t come. All he feels is the warm sun on his neck, the faint buzz of the beer in his veins, the quiet hum of her standing next to him.
They talk for 45 minutes, him telling her about the 1972 CB750 he’s rebuilding for a guy from Austin, her telling him about the time she got stuck in a snowstorm in Alaska for three weeks while on a travel contract. A group of rowdy teens runs past chasing a stray golden retriever, and one of them slams into her shoulder hard enough that she stumbles forward. He grabs her waist to steady her, his hands wrapping around the soft curve of her hips, and suddenly they’re standing inches apart, her chest brushing his when she breathes in. He can see the faint smudge of chili powder on her left cheek, the tiny silver hoop earring in her nose, and she lifts a hand to brush a fleck of dried oregano off his flannel shirt, her fingers lingering on his chest for a beat. “I was gonna ask you if you wanted to get coffee later this week,” she says, quiet enough that only he can hear, over the noise of the crowd cheering for the hot dog eating contest down the row. “I was scared you’d say no.”
He almost does say no. Almost tells her he’s still too stuck on his wife, almost tells her he’s too old for whatever she’s looking for, almost tells her it’s too weird since she’s his neighbor’s niece. But then she smiles, that slow, lopsided grin that makes his chest feel tight, and he remembers his wife telling him two weeks before she died that if he didn’t get out and live after she was gone, she’d come back and haunt his ass so bad he’d never be able to tune a carburetor again. “I’d like that,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it.
The judges announce the winners an hour later, and he gets third place. Lila cheers so loud the people in the next booth turn to look, and she throws her arms around his neck, squeezing him tight, and he lets himself hug her back, his hands resting light on her back. He buys her a cone of pink cotton candy on the way back to his truck, and she tears off a piece, holds it up to his mouth. He takes a bite, the sugar melting on his tongue, sweeter than anything he’s tasted in four years. He opens the passenger door for her, and she climbs in, tucking her legs up under her, humming that same mariachi love song under her breath. He turns the radio to the old Tejano station his wife loved, and the familiar wail of a trumpet spills out of the speakers as he pulls out of the fairground parking lot.
