Ray Garza, 62, retired Border Patrol K9 handler, had dragged himself to the VFW chili cookoff only because his old partner begged him for three weeks straight. He’d spent the last three years holed up in his ranch house on the edge of town, only leaving for dawn walks along the creek and supply runs to the hardware store. His biggest flaw, he’d admit if pressed, was that he held onto guilt like it was a loaded service weapon: guilt over his last K9, Rico, taking a knife to the chest protecting him during a border crossing bust, guilt over never speaking up when his old supervisor, Earl, talked down to his wife Clara in front of the entire unit.
He leaned against the beer cooler, half hidden by a stack of folding chairs, nursing a lukewarm Shiner Bock, when he spotted her. She’d moved into the old ranch two plots down from his two months prior, fresh off a divorce from Earl, and he’d gone out of his way to avoid her, crossing the street when she watered her front yard, pretending he didn’t hear her wave when he drove past. She wore a faded Aggies hoodie with a coffee stain on the cuff, frayed work boots, and a smudge of ancho chili powder high on her left cheek, holding a stack of paper bowls for her chili entry.
“Figured I’d find you hiding over here,” she said, grinning, and he noticed the tiny gap between her two front teeth he’d never paid attention to back when she was married to Earl. He’d always thought she was too nice for that miserable son of a bitch, but he’d never said a word, followed the unwritten unit rule about not messing with a supervisor’s personal life, even when Earl showed up to work with lipstick on his collar and lied about working late. Guilt twisted in his chest, warring with the stupid, sharp spark of desire he’d not felt since his wife left him eight years prior. He didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve to have someone look at him like he wasn’t just a broken old guy who got his dog killed.
They talked for 45 minutes right there by the cooler, him leaning back against the cold metal, her propped one hip against the stack of chairs, telling him about the botanical illustration work she did for the state park service, how she’d found a stack of old K9 training manuals in the shed behind her house when she moved in. He recognized them immediately, his, left there when he sold the property to Earl 12 years prior. He tried three separate times to excuse himself, to run back to his empty house and frozen dinners and the photo of Rico on his mantel, but every time he opened his mouth she’d say something that made him stop: she’d seen the small memorial he’d set up for Rico under the oak tree by the creek, she left extra sunflower seeds out for the cardinals that hung around it, she hated Earl’s guts too and had for 20 years, no unwritten rule was going to stop her from talking to whoever she wanted.
His throat went tight. He’d never told anyone about the treats he left at the memorial, never told anyone how he still talked to Rico like the dog was right there next to him on the walks. He stared at the treat in her palm, then up at her, and when she reached out to wipe a smudge of chili off his chin with her thumb, he didn’t pull away. The callus on her thumb from holding paintbrushes scraped soft against his jaw, and for the first time in three years, the guilt didn’t feel heavy enough to hold him down.
He asked her if she wanted to ride out to the creek with him that night, to leave the treat together. She nodded, grinning that same gap-toothed grin, and slid her hand across the tailgate to rest next to his. He tossed his empty beer can in the trash can propped against his rear tire, reached for her hand, and didn’t let go when she laced her fingers through his.
