Manny Ruiz, 62, retired U.S. Fish and Wildlife field technician, spent 32 years tagging migratory birds along the Texas Gulf Coast, his left forearm crisscrossed with faint scratches and one thick, pale scar from an angry pelican that bit him during a banding run when he was 28. He’d avoided every small-town community event since his wife Elaina died eight years prior, hated the pitying half-smiles, the mandatory “how you holding up” questions, the way everyone tiptoed around him like he was one bad comment away from shattering. He’d only showed up to the annual volunteer fire department chili cook-off because his 16-year-old niece had begged him, said her entry was the only one in the teen category that didn’t taste like canned tomato sauce and regret. He held a half-eaten bowl of her too-smoky, too-spicy chili in one hand, work boots caked in red dirt from the unpaved parking lot, and was two steps from his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150 when someone slammed into his side.
Iced sweet tea sloshed over the rim of a dented plastic cup, soaking the left cuff of his faded gray flannel. He was ready to snap before he looked down, and his throat went dry. Clara Marquez, 58, ex-wife of his old work partner Jesse, the woman he’d spent 20 years quietly pining after when she was firmly off limits, who he hadn’t spoken to in 11 years, not long after her divorce was finalized. She held a crumpled paper napkin, flustered, stepped so close their scuffed work boots were almost touching, and dabbed at the wet fabric before he could say he was fine. Her knuckles brushed the raised pelican scar on his forearm, and he felt a jolt go up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold tea seeping through his shirt. She smelled like coconut sunscreen and cedar smoke from the cook-off burn pits, exactly the same as he remembered.
His first, automatic thought was that this was wrong, that Jesse had been his best friend for 25 years, even if they hadn’t spoken since Jesse moved to Montana with his second wife seven years prior. The thought faded fast when she met his eye, held the contact for three slow, unblinking beats, no awkward look away, no polite small talk opening to soften the blow of running into an old acquaintance. She said she’d seen his truck parked at the refuge the week before, was there shooting photos of roseate spoonbills for a local nature magazine, couldn’t find the hidden nesting spot he used to take the team to when the public was crowding the main trails. He didn’t mention he still went to the refuge every Tuesday, still checked the pelican nests even though he was retired, still hadn’t figured out what to do with all the free time he’d never asked for.
The sun dipped below the Gulf, pink and tangerine streaking the sky, and the volunteer fire crew flipped on the string lights strung between the live oak trees, set off a handful of small fireworks to kick off the annual raffle. She flinched a little at the first boom, leaned in so her shoulder pressed solidly against his, and he could feel the warmth of her through his flannel shirt. The guilt he’d carried for 20 years, the stupid misplaced loyalty to a friend who hadn’t called him on his birthday in seven years, the fear that letting someone new in would be a betrayal of Elaina, all of it felt smaller than the pressure of her shoulder against his, than the way she was looking at him like she knew exactly what he’d been avoiding all these years.
He said he had a cooler of cold Shiner back at his place, and the hidden spoonbill nesting spot was only 10 minutes from his driveway, they could head out at sunrise if she wanted, no crowds, no park rangers breathing down their necks. She smirked, raised an eyebrow, said she didn’t bring an overnight bag, didn’t plan on staying out late. He said he had an old hoodie Jesse left at his place 12 years ago she could borrow, and the guest room had a view of the water that was worth sleeping on lumpy thrift store sheets for. She didn’t say anything for a beat, then nodded, slung her canvas camera bag over her shoulder, linked her arm through his when they stood up.
He tossed his half-eaten bowl of chili in the trash on the way to the truck, didn’t even stop to say goodbye to his niece, knew she’d tease him relentlessly about it later but couldn’t bring himself to care. He opened the passenger door for her, the salt breeze off the Gulf catching the ends of her silver-streaked brown hair, and she tugged him down by the front of his flannel for a quick, warm kiss before she climbed in.
