Manny Ruiz, 53, retired livestock feedlot inspector, leans against the splintered wooden post of the beer tent at the Fredericksburg fall chili cookoff, twisting the cap off a frosty Shiner Bock. He’d only agreed to come because his 82-year-old next door neighbor, Elma, had showed up on his porch at 8 a.m. with a tin of peanut butter cookies and a guilt trip about how he was going to turn into a hermit if he didn’t stop hiding out at his half-renovated Airstream. His boots are still caked with red clay from patching the fence around his property that morning, his Carhartt jacket smells like diesel and pine, and he’s already mapped out his exit route for 20 minutes from now, when he can slip back to his place, pop in an old John Wayne movie, and avoid small talk for the rest of the weekend.
The bluegrass band 50 feet away tears through a fast rendition of “Foggy Mountain Breakdown,” the scent of smoked pork and cinnamon-infused chili curls through the cool October air, and then he’s turning at the sound of someone laughing too loud behind him, his shoulder slamming into a warm, soft hip. A bowl of chili sloshes, a dollop of it splattering on the knee of a pair of well-worn high-waisted jeans, and he’s already bracing for a sharp remark, the kind he’s gotten used to from strangers who don’t care for his gruff, quiet demeanor. Instead, the woman in front of him snorts, swiping at the chili stain with the back of her hand like it’s no more inconvenient than a fly. “Whoa, easy there, cowboy. I know the chili’s good, but you don’t have to tackle me for a taste.”
She’s got hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, a smudge of chili powder dusted on her left cheek, and a faded Willie Nelson t-shirt tucked into those jeans. She doesn’t step back when he leans in to apologize, the proximity letting him catch the faint scent of lavender soap mixed with the smoked paprika on her hands. “Manny,” he says, holding out a calloused hand, the same hands that spent 28 years prying open feed bins, checking cattle health certificates, and driving 300 miles a day down dusty West Texas two-lanes. He’d had a minor heart attack last spring, the doctor telling him he needed to slow down, stop working 60 hour weeks, stop shutting everyone out after his ex-wife left him for an Austin real estate agent seven years prior. He’d taken the retirement package, inherited the Airstream from his great-uncle, and moved here planning to never let anyone get close enough to disappoint him again.
“Lila,” she says, her palm soft when it presses against his, lingering a beat longer than necessary. She runs the used bookstore on Main Street, she tells him, she’d dropped off a stack of old Louis L’Amour paperbacks on his porch two weeks prior, when she saw his truck parked in the driveway and heard from Elma he was a fan. He’d found the books, had even read half of one, but he’d never bothered to ask who left them, too wrapped up in his own routine of fixing the Airstream, fishing the creek behind his property, and eating frozen burritos for dinner alone.
She teases him about the hermit rumors floating around town, how half the residents had bet he was a fugitive on the run, the other half betting he was a retired rock star laying low. He laughs, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months, when he tells her about the feedlot job, the time he’d stumbled on a group of baby goats that had escaped a nearby farm, hidden in a stack of hay bales, the time he’d driven through a hailstorm so bad it cracked his windshield, spent 12 hours stuck in a small town diner waiting for the roads to clear. She listens, leaning against the post next to him, her shoulder brushing his every time someone passes by, never once glancing at her phone, never once acting like his stories are boring.
His chest tightens when she asks him if he wants to try her chili entry, holding out a small paper cup to him. Their fingers brush when he takes it, the heat of her skin seeping into his, and he has to stop himself from flinching, from pulling away like he’s been burned. He hasn’t touched anyone who wasn’t a doctor or a grocery store cashier in three years. The chili is smoky, a little spicy, has a faint hint of dark chocolate that lingers on his tongue, better than any he’s ever tasted at the dozens of cookoffs he went to for work over the years. He tells her as much, and she grins, the corners of her eyes crinkling so hard he can see the faint silver streaks in her light brown hair when she tilts her head back to laugh.
He spends the next two hours standing there with her, forgetting all about his planned exit, forgetting about the John Wayne movie waiting for him at home, forgetting about the rule he made seven years ago to never let anyone get close enough to hurt him. The conflict twists tight in his chest, half disgust at himself for breaking that rule so easily, half warm, giddy desire he hasn’t felt since he was 20 years old, the kind that makes his palms sweat a little, makes him hang on every word she says. When the sun starts to dip below the oak trees, the bluegrass band packing up their instruments, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and asks him if he wants to come back to her store. She’s got a first edition of *Hondo* she’s been holding onto for him, she says, ever since Elma told her it was his favorite book as a kid.
He almost makes an excuse, almost says he has to feed the stray dog that hangs around his property, almost says he’s tired, wants to go home. Then he looks at her, the chili powder smudge still faint on her cheek, her hand hovering an inch from his arm like she wants to touch him but doesn’t want to push, and he nods. They walk out of the fairgrounds together, the crunch of gravel under their boots, the distant sound of kids laughing on the carnival rides fading behind them. He carries her half-empty cooler of leftover chili in one hand, his half-finished beer in the other, her shoulder bumping his every few steps, and for the first time in seven years, he doesn’t feel the urge to rush home to an empty house.
