Manny Rios, 62, retired high-voltage lineman, had only agreed to man the grill at the town’s Fourth of July picnic because his 10-year-old granddaughter had batted her big brown eyes and promised she’d save him the first slice of her mom’s peach pie. He’d spent the last year holed up in his garage restoring a 1987 Ford F-150, avoiding any gathering that involved more than three people, still sore from his wife bailing for an Austin realtor 12 years prior, still convinced all that small talk and forced cheer was for people who didn’t know how to be alone. His left knee ached from the 2019 storm that had sent him sliding 20 feet down a transmission pole, the brats on the grill sizzled so hot fat spattered his sunburnt forearms, and he kept his Texas Tech ball cap pulled low so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact with the neighbors who kept waving him over to their blankets.
Then he saw her. Lila Marlow, 58, Jake’s little sister, the kid he’d carried to the ER when she was 10 and fell out of the oak tree Jake had dared her to climb, the one who’d sent him a handwritten Christmas card every year even after she moved to New Mexico to teach high school biology. She’d been widowed three years, he’d heard, and she’d moved back to town the week prior to take over her mom’s old garden center. She was wearing cutoff denim shorts and a linen shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the small silver cross around her neck, her auburn hair streaked with silver pulled half back with a blue scrunchie, a smudge of dirt on her left ankle like she’d been planting flowers that morning.
He tried to turn back to the grill, but she’d already spotted him, and she was walking over, holding two cold Shiner Bocks, the condensation beading down the sides of the cans. He froze, his hand hovering over the tongs. He’d thought about her more than he cared to admit over the years, quiet little thoughts he’d shoved down fast, because she was Jake’s sister, off limits, untouchable, the kind of woman who laughed loud and didn’t take crap from anyone, the kind he would have asked out in a heartbeat if their last names weren’t tied to his oldest friend’s memory.
“Figured you’d be stuck over here sweating your ass off,” she said, holding out one of the beers. Their fingers brushed when he took it, the callus on her thumb from digging in dirt catching on the scar across his knuckle, and he yanked his hand back like he’d grabbed a live wire. She smirked, leaning against the picnic table next to the grill, close enough he could smell coconut sunscreen and mint iced tea on her breath. “You still jumpy around me, Manny Rios? I’m not 16 anymore, you don’t have to act like I’m gonna tattle to my brother if you so much as look at me.”
He grunted, flipping a brat so it didn’t burn, his face hot. He remembered when she was 16, she’d showed up to Jake’s 21st birthday party in a too-short red dress, and he’d spent the whole night chasing off college boys who tried to slip her beer. He’d thought she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, even then, but Jake had punched a guy in the jaw for whistling at her that night, and Manny had filed every thought of her away under “do not touch.”
They talked for 40 minutes, while the brats cooked and the kids screamed as they ran through the sprinkler set up on the far end of the field. She told him about the garden center, about the tomato plants she’d just put in that kept getting eaten by deer, about how she’d forgotten how hot west Texas summers got. He told her about the F-150 he was restoring, about his granddaughter’s soccer league, about how the lineman crew had sent him a retirement plaque shaped like a utility pole. They kept bumping shoulders, accidental at first, then not so much, and every time her warm arm pressed against his bicep, his chest felt tight, like he was 20 again and trying to work up the nerve to ask a girl to dance.
He was fighting it hard, that stupid, bubbling desire he’d thought was dead for good. He felt guilty, like he was betraying Jake, like if his old friend was watching from somewhere he’d be rolling in his grave. But when Lila leaned in to tell him a joke about the mayor getting caught sneaking donuts from the bake sale table, her lips almost brushing his ear, he forgot all about guilt.
By the time the sun started to dip low, everyone was herding toward the edge of the field to watch the fireworks. A group of teen boys ran past, jostling Lila hard, and she stumbled forward, right into his chest. He caught her by the waist, his hands firm on her hips, and when she looked up at him, her green eyes flecked with gold, the first red firework burst behind her, painting her face pink.
For a second, neither of them moved. “I had a crush on you since I was 16, you know,” she said, soft enough only he could hear, over the hum of the crowd. “Jake knew. Teased me about it for years. Said you were too much of a dumbass to ever notice.”
Manny blinked. He’d spent 42 years thinking those feelings were one-sided, that he was a creep for even having them. “Jake never said a word,” he said, his voice rough.
“Because he knew you’d run for the hills,” she said, smiling, her hands resting on his chest. “Said you’d rather climb a pole in a thunderstorm than admit you liked someone.”
The next firework burst blue, and he could see the scar on her left wrist, the one from that oak tree, peeking out from under her bracelet. He’d always thought he’d be betraying Jake by acting on what he felt, but for the first time all night, that guilt melted away, replaced by something warm and bright, something he hadn’t felt in longer than he could remember.
He didn’t kiss her, not there, with half the town watching, but he didn’t let go of her waist either. They stood that way through the whole show, her shoulder pressed to his chest, his hand loose on her hip, watching the fireworks paint the sky red and white and blue. When the last burst faded and the crowd started cheering, she pulled a crumpled napkin out of her pocket, scribbled her cell number on it with a ballpoint pen she pulled from her shirt pocket, and pressed it into his palm.
“I’m making pork enchiladas tomorrow night at 7,” she said, leaning up to kiss his cheek, her lipstick leaving a faint pink mark on his skin. “Strawberry margaritas too. Don’t be late.”
He nodded, watching as she walked to her beat-up Subaru, waving over her shoulder before she got in and drove away. He looked down at the napkin in his hand, the numbers scrawled in messy, looping handwriting, and took a sip of his warm beer, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a smile he hadn’t worn in over a decade.
He tucks the crumpled napkin she wrote her cell number on into the front pocket of his work shirt, already counting the hours until 7 PM tomorrow.
