Manny Ruiz, 62, spent 38 years as a highway construction foreman paving interstates across Arizona and New Mexico before retiring two years prior. His knuckles bore a faint, silvery scar from a 2008 asphalt spill that landed him in the ER for 12 stitches, and his biggest flaw was a stubborn streak so thick he’d spent three full years avoiding all neighborhood and family events after his wife Linda passed, convinced any attempt to move on was a betrayal of their 37 year marriage. He only showed up to the town’s annual summer chili cookoff because his 16-year-old grandson Javi had begged him to enter his famous green hatch chili, the recipe Linda had written out for him in their first year of marriage, and he couldn’t say no to the kid.
He was leaning against a folding table next to his crockpot, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, when he spotted her. Clara Bennett, 58, Linda’s cousin’s ex-wife, who’d been divorced from Manny’s former cousin-in-law for 12 years, ran the local cactus nursery on the edge of town. He hadn’t seen her since Linda’s funeral, where she’d slipped him a jar of homemade prickly pear jam and told him to call if he needed anything, and he’d never called, too wrapped up in his own grief and the stupid, unspoken rule that she was off limits, even if she wasn’t technically family anymore. She walked over in high-waisted denim shorts and a faded linen shirt, bare legs dusted with a faint smudge of potting soil at the ankle, and smiled so wide the corners of her eyes crinkled.
“You actually showed up. I told Javi I’d put $20 on your chili beating the fire department’s entry, don’t make me lose my money,” she said, stopping so close the shoulder of her shirt brushed his bicep when she leaned in to sniff the crockpot. Manny could smell lavender perfume mixed with the faint, earthy scent of cactus soil on her skin, undercut by the smoke of mesquite grills and the sharp tang of chili powder floating through the air from the other booths. Mariachi music blared from the stage at the far end of the park, kids screaming as they ran past chasing a stray dog, and he found himself leaning slightly toward her, like he was trying to hear her over the noise even though she was close enough he could count the silver strands threaded through her dark brown hair.
She pointed at the scar on his left knuckle, her finger hovering an inch from his skin before she gently brushed the tip of it across the raised tissue, cool against his sun-warmed, calloused skin. “When’d you get that? I don’t remember it from the 2017 family reunion,” she said, her eyes locking on his, no trace of the pity he’d gotten used to from every other person who’d talked to him in the last three years. Manny froze for half a second, the familiar twist of guilt in his gut at the jolt of heat that shot up his arm from her touch, half wanting to step back, half wanting to lace his fingers through hers. He told her the story of the asphalt spill, and she laughed, the sound bright enough to cut through the noise of the crowd, and he realized he hadn’t laughed with anyone that wasn’t his grandkid in years.
When the awards were announced, Manny won second place, 50 bucks and a cheap plastic trophy shaped like a chili pepper. Javi grabbed the ribbon and ran off to show his friends, and Clara tilted her head toward the tree line at the edge of the park, where the small creek ran through the woods. “Wanna go get away from the noise for a minute? I brought iced tea in my bag, it’s spiked with tequila,” she said, and Manny hesitated for only a second before nodding, the guilt he’d felt earlier fading fast, replaced with a giddy, thrumming excitement he’d thought he’d never feel again.
They walked down the dirt path to the creek, the grass crunching under their work boots, the air ten degrees cooler under the shade of the cottonwood trees. Dragonflies zipped over the surface of the water, and the sound of the crowd faded to a low hum behind them. They sat on a fallen oak log, her leg pressing against his from hip to ankle, and she pulled two cans of iced tea out of her canvas bag, handing him one. She told him she’d thought about calling him a dozen times over the last three years, but didn’t want to overstep, knew how stubborn he was. Manny admitted he’d avoided every event he thought she might be at, because he’d been attracted to her for years, even when Linda was alive, and he’d thought acting on it made him a terrible husband.
She laughed, shifting closer so her shoulder was pressed tight to his, and brushed a strand of gray hair off his forehead. “Linda used to tease me about having a crush on you, you know. Told me if she ever went first, I should make a move,” she said, and Manny’s breath caught in his throat. He leaned in, slow, like he was approaching a skittish stray dog, and kissed her, her lips soft and tasting like peach lip balm and tequila, and she kissed him back, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his face, no hesitation.
They sat there for 45 minutes, talking between kisses, her head resting on his shoulder, his hand resting on her knee, the cool water of the creek gurgling a few feet away. Javi texted him asking where he was, saying the fire department guys wanted to challenge Manny to a rematch next year. Manny texted back he’d be there in 20 minutes, then helped Clara stand up, her calloused hand, rough from repotting cacti, fitting perfectly in his own calloused hand, rough from decades of laying asphalt. They walked back up the path toward the cookoff, the noise of the crowd getting louder, and when they passed a group of Linda’s distant cousins standing by a food truck, he didn’t let go of her hand.
