Rudy Galvan, 62, retired U.S. Border Patrol K9 handler, had been dragged to the annual Maverick County Cookoff against his will. His niece had shown up at his ranch at 3 p.m. with a cooler of Shiner Bock and a threat to turn his hose off if he didn’t come, and he’d caved, mostly because he knew she was right about him hiding out too much since his wife passed eight years prior. He’d spent the first hour hovering by the mesquite brisket pit, hat pulled low, avoiding small talk with neighbors who only ever wanted to ask how he was holding up, as if holding up was the only thing he was supposed to do anymore. The air smelled like smoked meat and lime rinds, mariachi brass blaring from the speaker by the beer tent loud enough to rattle the fillings in his back teeth, ice clinking in every plastic cup within eyeshot.
He spotted her when he turned to dump the last sip of his warm beer in the dirt. Marisol Ruiz. 58, last he’d heard, and the ex-wife of his former partner Javi, who’d left her for a 28-year-old park ranger 12 years prior and moved to Phoenix, never coming back. He hadn’t seen her in a decade, and for half a second he considered ducking behind the pit, old loyalty warring with the jolt that ran up his spine when she laughed at some kid’s joke, wiping chili cheese off the little boy’s cheek with the edge of her dark teal sun dress. She spotted him before he could move, tilting her head, that half-smirk he’d always liked pulling at the corner of her mouth, and she walked over.
She stopped a foot away, close enough he could pick up the coconut sunscreen she was wearing and the faint tang of pickled jalapeño on her breath, her braided dark hair streaked with silver, a tiny turquoise bead at the end of the plait. “You still wear that beat-up hat?” she said, nodding at the frayed brim of his patrol cap, the one with the K9 unit patch sewn on the side. “I figured you’d have tossed it the day Max retired.” He didn’t get a chance to answer before she reached up, brushing a dried mesquite leaf off his shoulder, her knuckles grazing the stubble on his jaw by accident. He flinched, not from surprise, but from how long it had been since anyone who wasn’t family touched him that casually, no pity, no agenda.
The guilt hit right after. Javi had been his best friend for 18 years, even after he left Marisol, even after Rudy told him he was an idiot for walking out. He’d spent 15 years forcing himself not to notice how her eyes crinkled when she laughed, how she brought him tamales every Christmas when Javi was on shift, how she’d sat with him for three hours in the vet’s office when Max got shot on a trail run. He’d always told himself wanting anything more than friendship with her was a line he couldn’t cross, a betrayal even Javi didn’t deserve.
They ended up on a splintered picnic bench off to the side, away from the crowd, her plate of elote between them, crumbs of cotija cheese scattered on the weathered wood. The sun was dipping low now, painting the sky pink and tangerine, the air cooling off enough that he could feel the chill on his arms through his thin denim shirt. She told him she’d moved back to town two weeks prior, taking the county horticulture extension job, to take care of her mom who’d had a stroke last winter. She asked if he still went out to the old trailhead by the Rio Grande, the one they used to take the K9s to for off-leash training on slow weekends. He said he went every Saturday, brought black coffee for himself, peanut butter treats for the strays that hung around the abandoned pump house. “I’d like to come sometime,” she said, soft, not pushing, picking at a loose splinter on the bench. “If you don’t mind the company. No pressure.”
He hesitated for three full beats, the old guilt buzzing in his ear, until he looked up and saw her watching him, no pity, no expectation, just that same quiet smile he’d remembered for 10 years. “Yeah,” he said, and his voice was rougher than he meant it to be. “That’d be nice.” His hand was resting palm down on the bench six inches from hers, and she shifted her weight, moving her hand so her pinky rested against his, warm, calloused from years of gardening, and neither of them pulled away.
The announcer yelled over the speaker that the brisket judging results were in, and the crowd whooped, surging toward the pit. Marisol stood, brushing crumbs off her dress, the chili stain on the hem faded but still visible. “You wanna split a slice of the winning brisket?” she asked, nodding toward the crowd. “I heard the guy from Quemado brought a rub with cocoa in it this year. Supposed to be insane.” Rudy huffed a laugh, remembering she’d ranted for 20 minutes once after a cookoff where someone put cocoa in their chili, called it a crime against Tex-Mex. He nodded, standing up, his knee brushing hers when he got to his feet, neither of them stepping back for a long second, the sun dipping low enough to paint the edges of her hair gold. He tossed his empty beer cup in the trash can by the bench, and when he turned to follow her toward the crowd, he let his hand brush the back of her arm, light, intentional, no apology needed.
