Manny Ruiz, 62, retired offshore oil rig electrician, hasn’t willingly attended a small-town Texas community social since his wife Carol passed in 2015. His 12-year-old granddaughter Lila strong-armed him into the Fourth of July picnic’s brisket contest, badgering him for three weeks straight until he caved, hauling his dented 12-year-old offset smoker to the city park at 4 a.m. to start the cook. He’s got a half-empty Shiner Bock sweating in his hand, leaning against the back of his rusted 2008 F150, watching Lila chase her friends around the slip-n-slide when someone bumps his elbow hard enough to slosh beer down his wrist.
He turns, ready to snap, and freezes. Lena Hale, 58, Carol’s high school roommate, the girl he’d stared at across chemistry class for two years before he worked up the nerve to ask Carol out, is standing there holding a crumpled seltzer can, grinning like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. Her sun-streaked gray hair is pulled back in a messy braid, she’s wearing a faded 1990s Willie Nelson cutoff shirt and frayed denim cutoffs, freckles dusting her nose that he doesn’t remember being there 40 years prior. Her arm brushes his when she leans in to apologize, and he can smell coconut sunscreen and the faint sweet tang of fried Oreos on her breath, the high school marching band’s rendition of “Stars and Stripes Forever” blaring loud enough to make the truck’s side mirror rattle.
He doesn’t know what to say at first, half-embarrassed he’s still got that stupid little flutter in his chest like he’s 17 again, half-guilty that Carol’s name is sitting in the back of his throat like a bad taste. He’d promised himself he’d never even look at another woman, let alone one that Carol had considered her closest friend for 30 years. His sister-in-law had chewed him out two years prior for even accepting a dinner invite from a woman at the hardware store, calling it disrespectful to Carol’s memory, and he’d believed her until right now, when Lena laughs and says she’d heard he was still making the best brisket within 100 miles, and he can’t bring himself to walk away.
They lean against the truck tailgate for 40 minutes, talking about nothing and everything. She lives in Austin now, does graphic design for small craft breweries, is in town visiting her mom for the holiday. She teases him about the time he spilled fruit punch all over her prom dress, how he’d turned so red he looked like a sunburnt tomato, and he teases her back about the time she’d snuck him a beer at Carol’s 18th birthday party, got them both grounded for a week. Their knees keep brushing when one of them shifts, her hand grazes his when they both reach for a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips at the same time, and he notices she doesn’t yank her hand away like she’s embarrassed, just holds it there for half a beat, her thumb brushing the thick, ridged scar on the back of his hand from a 2009 wiring accident on the rig.
The first firework goes off right as the picnic coordinator yells that Manny’s brisket took first place, purple and gold lighting up the sky for half a second, painting Lena’s face soft pink. He’s still staring at her, not paying attention to the coordinator shoving a crumpled blue ribbon in his hand, when she leans in closer, so close he can feel her breath on his cheek, and says she always thought he was the best guy Carol ever could’ve picked, that she’d been jealous as hell back in high school, even if she’d never admitted it to anyone.
The guilt flairs up for half a second, loud as the fireworks cracking overhead, and he almost pulls away. Then he remembers Carol sitting on their back porch two months before she died, holding his hand, telling him she didn’t want him to be lonely when she was gone, that he deserved to be happy, no matter what anyone else said. He reaches up, brushes a stray strand of hair that’s fallen out of her braid off her face, his fingers brushing her warm jaw, and she doesn’t flinch, just smiles up at him, her eyes glinting in the bursts of red and blue light overhead.
He asks her if she wants to go get breakfast at the little diner off Route 35 tomorrow, the one that makes the green chile pancakes she used to rave about back in high school, and she nods, leaning her head on his shoulder for two quiet seconds before Lila comes barrelling over, yelling that they need to cut the brisket for all her friends. He wraps his arm around her shoulders for half a second before he stands up to grab the brisket knife out of his truck cab, the blue ribbon crumpled in his other hand, and he doesn’t even glance across the park to see if his sister-in-law is watching.
