Ray Garza, 59, retired Border Patrol K9 handler turned native plant nursery owner, perched on the edge of a wobbly folding table at the VFW’s monthly fish fry, picking fried catfish skin off his plate with a plastic fork. He’d shown up only because his old partner had begged him to make an appearance, and he hated letting the guy down. For eight years, ever since his wife’s stroke, he’d stuck to his 20-acre property outside town, only leaving to drop off plant orders or grab coffee at the one gas station where no one tried to ask him how he was doing. His worst flaw, he’d admit if pressed, was judging every person and every issue before he had half the facts—he’d signed the petition against the new librarian’s banned book display three weeks earlier without even reading her op-ed, just because a guy at the feed store said she’d called Border Patrol agents “violent thugs.”
The room went quiet for half a beat when Clara Bennett walked in. She was 48, had moved to town from Portland six months earlier, and the whole county had been picking sides over her op-ed ever since it ran in the local paper. Every table was full, save for the empty metal folding chair across from Ray. She hesitated for two seconds, hiking the canvas tote slung over her shoulder higher, then walked straight over, boots scuffing the linoleum dotted with fryer grease crumbs. “You gonna let me sit, or are you gonna stage a protest right here?” she said, half teasing, her voice lower than he expected, like she spent most days talking quiet to small kids or old books.
He grunted, nodded, pushing his plate of hushpuppies an inch toward the center of the table by accident. She sat, and her denim-clad knee brushed his under the table, sharp and warm, and he jolted like he’d touched a live fence wire. He looked up for the first time, and noticed the smattering of freckles across her nose, the chipped sage-green nail polish on her fingers, the scuff marks on her leather cowboy boots—no fancy city loafers, like the gossip mill had claimed. She smelled like lavender hand cream and fried oreos, the kind the volunteer fire department was selling out by the door.
She slid a folded copy of the local paper across the table, and their fingers brushed when he took it. “Read it. The op-ed. I never called agents thugs. I said the book the school board banned was written by a retired Border Patrol vet who grew up in this valley, and kids deserved to hear his take, not just the garbage Fox News shoves down their throats.” He unfolded it, read slow, and felt heat creep up his neck. She was right. He’d been an idiot. He mumbled an apology, and she laughed, loud enough that a few guys at the next table glanced over. “Apology accepted. You owe me a hushpuppy, though. I waited in line for 20 minutes and they ran out before I got to the front.”
She reached across the table to grab one off his plate, and her wrist brushed his, calloused from digging in dirt, he realized, not soft like he’d assumed. She said she’d been trying to track down native milkweed for the library’s new pollinator garden for weeks, but every nursery within 50 miles was sold out. He told her he had 12 flats of it back at his place, grown from seeds he’d collected along the Rio Grande the previous spring. Their knees pressed together under the table again, this time on purpose, and he didn’t move his leg away.
When the local cover band struck up a slow George Strait track, she stood, wiping crumbs off her jeans, and held out her hand. “C’mon. Dance with me. I know you haven’t danced since your wife died. Mrs. Henderson down the street from the library told me.” He hesitated, his palms sweating for the first time since he’d had to chase a group of smugglers through the desert with his K9 Max, three years before Max passed. “That’s a terrible reason to turn down a dance, Ray,” she said, soft, and he stood, took her hand.
They danced close, his calloused palm resting light on her waist, and he could feel the warmth of her through her worn flannel shirt, her breath fanning across his neck when she said she’d driven past his nursery three times the week before, too nervous to stop, because she’d heard he hated her. He laughed, quiet, and admitted he’d parked across the street from the library twice to look at the small pollinator bed she’d planted out front, too embarrassed to come in and apologize for signing the petition. No one stared, not really, even though half the room knew they were supposed to be enemies.
They left the fish fry 20 minutes later, driving separate cars out to his nursery, the sky spitting soft cool drizzle by the time they pulled into the gravel drive. He flipped on the floodlight strung above the greenhouse door, and pulled out the flat of milkweed, the leaves thick and bright green. She ran her finger along the edge of a leaf, then looked up at him, and leaned in, kissing him slow, the smell of rain and sage and lavender wrapping around them. He kissed her back, his hand resting on her hip, not caring if any of the neighbors drove by and saw, not caring about the petition or the gossip or all the years he’d spent hiding away from everything that felt like it might hurt.
A fat monarch butterfly, blown off course by the drizzle, landed on the edge of the milkweed flat between them, its orange wings glowing soft in the floodlight, and neither of them moved to shoo it away.
