Manny Ruiz, 62, retired bighorn sheep reintroduction specialist, had avoided the town’s weekly food truck rally for three straight years. He’d told himself it was too loud, too crowded, full of people who wanted to pester him about when he’d get back to leading backcountry hikes, about the wife he’d buried after a quick, brutal bout of lung cancer in 2020. The only reason he showed up this July evening was his 19-year-old niece, Lila, who’d begged him to come sample her new pupusa recipe, said she’d give him free horchata for life if he stopped moping on his front porch for one night.
He was leaning against a gnarled live oak at the edge of the square, cold horchata in one hand, cheese pupusa in the other, when the collision happened. She was carrying a paper tray loaded with three elote cups, twisted around to yell at a kid who’d almost run into her bookmobile trailer parked by the carnitas truck, and her hip slammed hard into his side. A dollop of crema and chili powder slid off one of the cobs and splattered onto the scuffed leather of his work boot, the same pair he’d worn on the 2013 bighorn release that killed his old partner, Jake.
She yelped an apology, set the tray on a nearby picnic table, and dropped to her knees before he could protest. Her fingers brushed his calf through the thin, sun-bleached fabric of his work jeans as she grabbed a crumpled napkin from her back pocket, dabbing at the mess on his boot. She smelled like jasmine lotion and roasted corn, like the sun-warmed paper of the library books she hauled around three counties for her mobile book drop. When she looked up at him, hazel eyes crinkled at the corners from grinning, he recognized her immediately: Maren Hale, Jake’s widow. He’d not spoken more than two words to her since the funeral, guilt coiled so tight in his chest he could barely breathe around it. He’d survived the rockslide that took Jake, had been standing ten feet away when the slab gave out, and every time he saw her he felt like he was carrying the weight of the life she’d lost.
“Manny,” she said, still grinning, like she wasn’t even mad he’d basically been a ghost to her for a decade. “I’d know that scar on your jaw anywhere. Still hold your drinks like you’re waiting for a spooked bighorn to knock it out of your hand, huh?” She stood up, wiped her hands on the faded Willie Nelson cutoff tee she was wearing, and he noticed the calluses on her fingers, rough from stacking hundreds of books a week, from hauling crates of kids’ picture books up slippery trailer steps. She was 58, had a thick streak of silver running through the dark hair she’d pulled back in a loose braid, and he was suddenly hyper-aware of how long it had been since a woman had stood this close to him, since he’d felt the heat of someone else’s arm brushing his.
The guilt hit first, sharp and hot. He shouldn’t be noticing the way her lip glistened with the lime she’d just sucked off her elote, shouldn’t be enjoying the sound of her laugh when he told her Lila’s pupusa was better than any he’d had in El Paso. It felt wrong, like he was cheating on both his dead wife and Jake, like he was stealing something he had no right to. But when she asked if he wanted to share an order of churros, he said yes before he could talk himself out of it.
They sat on a weathered park bench a little away from the crowd, mariachi music drifting over from the bandstand, the sticky summer air thick with the smell of grilled meat and cinnamon sugar. She told him she’d been meaning to talk to him for years, said Jake had always talked about how Manny was the only partner he ever trusted, that she’d never blamed him for the rockslide. She admitted she’d had a crush on him back when they were all doing backcountry trips together, had never said anything because she loved Jake, because she thought Manny saw her as nothing more than his partner’s wife.
He froze when she leaned in a little, her shoulder pressing firm against his, and he could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton of his work shirt. The guilt was still there, but it was softer now, overshadowed by the hum of excitement in his bones, the weird, quiet relief of someone seeing him not as the guy who survived two big losses, but just as Manny. There was a dusting of cinnamon sugar on her lower lip, and he lifted his hand without thinking, brushing it off with his thumb. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just held his gaze, her smile softening into something slower, warmer.
The mariachi band switched to a slow cumbia, the trumpets soft and swaying, and he wiped his sticky hand on his jeans before he asked her if she wanted to dance. She nodded, slipping her hand into his, her calloused fingers fitting neatly between his, and let him lead her to the patch of grass where a handful of other couples were already swaying. He rested his hand lightly on her waist, the faint sound of her humming along to the song mixing with the trumpets, and for the first time in ten years, he didn’t feel guilty for wanting to be exactly where he was.
