Javier Mendez, 59, spent most of his 26 year career with Border Patrol’s K9 unit chasing drug runners through the Sonoran Desert, so he’s used to ignoring discomfort. He ignores the burn of 93 degree heat on his sun-leathered neck at the annual Sierra Vista chili cookoff, ignores the kid kicking the leg of his booth who’s already spilled three cups of lemonade, ignores the tight twist in his chest every time he spots Lila Ruiz moving through the crowd. He’s ignored that twist for 18 months, ever since the county extension agent walked into his service dog training non-profit with a grant check that kept him from shutting down, and he’d looked up from fitting a lab puppy with a vest and forgot how to speak for ten full seconds.
His flaw, if you ask his old partner Ray, is that he’s stubborn to the point of self-sabotage. Seven years after his wife Elena died of ovarian cancer, he still sleeps on his side of the bed, still buys her favorite peaches every Saturday at the farmers market just to leave them on her grave, still acts like any flicker of interest in another woman is a betrayal so deep it would rot his bones. Lila is 48, sharp as a cactus spine, laughs so loud it makes the birds scatter when she’s amused, and Javier has spent every interaction with her carefully keeping a three foot distance, staring at the floor or the wall or anything but her mouth when she talks.
Today she’s wearing a faded linen button-down tied at the waist, cutoffs caked with dust from the dirt parking lot, scuffed cowboy boots that have clearly seen more time on hiking trails than in offices. A streak of silver runs through her thick dark braid, and when she stops in front of his booth, he can smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, sweet scent of the jasmine she grows in her front yard, the one he’d spotted when he drove past her place last week to drop off grant paperwork. “Your green chili won last year,” she says, leaning in to read the handwritten sign taped to the front of his folding table, her bare arm brushing his. The contact sends a jolt up his forearm, the kind he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager sneaking into drive-ins with Elena. “I want a sample. Extra lime, please.”
He nods, fumbling with the plastic spoon, his scarred left knuckle catching on the edge of the pot. The scar is from 2018, when a meth runner he was chasing bit him during an arrest, and he’d almost lost the finger. When he hands her the small paper cup, their fingers brush, and he nearly drops the whole ladle. She smirks, like she notices, and takes a sip, her eyes widening. “Damn, that’s even better than last year. You been holding out on me?”
Before he can answer, a group of drunk guys from the local rodeo team barrel past, one of them slamming into Lila’s shoulder. She stumbles forward, and he reacts the way he did when he was on patrol, fast, no thought, his calloused hand wrapping around her waist to yank her steady. Her palm slaps flat against his chest, right over his heart, and he can feel her pulse racing through the thin fabric of his worn cotton t-shirt. They stand there for three full beats, the noise of the cookoff fading into a low hum, the mariachi band’s trumpets warbling off to the side, dust sticking to the sweat on his neck. She’s looking up at him, her brown eyes glistening a little from the chili heat, and he’s about to apologize, to step back, to mumble some excuse about the dogs needing him, when she speaks.
“I knew Elena, you know,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear. “We took a native gardening class together six months before she got sick. She told me if you ever started acting like a hermit and pushing everyone away after she was gone, I was supposed to kick your ass until you remembered how to have fun. She said you’d be too stubborn to figure it out on your own.”
The twist in his chest loosens, all at once, like a knot someone’s been yanking on for years finally coming undone. He’d spent so long feeling guilty for even looking at Lila, for even letting himself wonder what it would be like to get coffee with her, to hike the Huachuca trails she’s always posting photos of, that he never considered Elena would want him to stop being alone. He doesn’t say anything for a second, just stares at her, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that slow, rusty grin he hasn’t used since before Elena got sick.
He grabs a full bowl of chili, piles extra lime and cilantro on top, and hands it to her. Their fingers brush again, deliberate this time, no fumbling, no awkwardness. “I finish my last service dog class at 6 tomorrow,” he says. “Pick me up. Bring hiking boots. And don’t forget the water, you always forget the water in those hiking posts.”
She laughs, that loud, bright laugh that makes his chest feel light, and takes the bowl, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll bring extra. And lose the ratty K9 hat, Mendez. I want to see that silver hair you hide under there.”
She turns and walks away, weaving through the crowd, and he leans back against the booth, picking up his spoon to dish out another sample for the freckled kid who’s been hanging around his booth for ten minutes. He tugs off his faded K9 hat, runs a hand through his thick silver hair, and drops the hat in the storage box under the table.
