Raymundo “Ray” Garza, 62, retired Texas game warden, leaned against the cinder block wall of the Hill Country ice house, foam coozie wrapped around a cold lager, sweat beading on the sun-weathered forearms he’d spent 30 years dragging through brush and creek beds chasing poachers and lost hikers. His only persistent personality flaw, as his sister never tired of pointing out, was holding onto guilt longer than he held onto a fishing rod during a summer catfish run. He’d avoided this annual end-of-summer chili cookoff for 20 years straight, ever since he’d written a 17-year-old kid a $400 poaching ticket for shooting a buck out of season, a penalty that cost the boy his summer orchard job and turned half the small town against him, or so he’d assumed. His sister had begged him to enter his brisket chili this year, said it was time he stopped hiding, so he’d showed up an hour early, parked his beat-up F-150 at the far edge of the lot, and planned to leave the second the prizes were announced.
The gravel crunched 10 feet in front of him, and he looked up to see Marisol Cruz, 58, the kid’s aunt, the same woman who’d screamed at him in the county courthouse parking lot after the hearing, calling him a heartless tin badge with no sense of grace. She was carrying a stack of paper plates, silver hoop earrings glinting in the late afternoon sun, denim skirt swishing just above her scuffed work boots, the faint smell of coconut shampoo cutting through the thick mix of mesquite smoke and chili spices hanging in the air. She stopped so close to his folding chair that the hem of her skirt brushed the toe of his work boot, and he tensed, ready for another lecture.
“Been waiting to try that chili everyone’s talking about,” she said, holding out a plate, her voice warmer than he remembered. When he reached to spoon a serving onto the plate, her wrist brushed his, and he felt the rough callus on the heel of her palm, the same kind he had from decades of holding hunting rifles and fence pliers. She held eye contact for three full beats longer than polite, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, before she took the plate and took a bite.
He held his breath. She hummed, low in her throat, and nodded. “Damn. That’s better than the abuela-style I make at the orchard. You’ve been holding out on us, Garza.”
He blinked, confused, and before he could ask what she meant, she laughed, sitting down on the folding chair next to him, their knees pressing together when a group of drunk college kids stumbled past carrying a cooler of beer. “I know you’ve been avoiding all of us for 20 years over that ticket,” she said, leaning in so he could hear her over the country cover band playing off to the side, her shoulder brushing his. “Turns out you did us all a favor. That kid? He got his act together, went to community college for wildlife management, now runs his own hunting guide service out of Fredericksburg. Still tells every client that ticket was the wake up call he needed to stop being an idiot.”
Ray felt the knot he’d carried in his chest for 20 years loosen so fast he almost went lightheaded. He’d spent two decades thinking he’d ruined a kid’s life, that everyone in town saw him as a petty tyrant, and it had all been for nothing. He’d been single for 8 years, ever since his wife passed from breast cancer, and he’d written off any kind of romantic connection entirely, too wrapped up in his own stupid guilt to notice anyone looking his way.
“Your sister’s been bugging me for six months to say hi to you, by the way,” she said, picking a piece of brisket out of her chili with her finger, popping it in her mouth. “Said you’re moping around the house too much, only ever leave to go to the grocery store on Saturdays for dill pickles and catfish fillets. I see you there every week, you know. You always wear that same faded Texas Rangers cap. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but I figured you still hated me for yelling at you that day.”
The announcer called his name over the loudspeaker then, first place in the brisket chili category, and he stood up so fast he almost tripped over the leg of his folding chair. She grabbed his elbow to steady him, her fingers warm and firm through the thin cotton of his work shirt, and she didn’t let go even when he was solid on his feet. He looked down at her, the golden light of the setting sun catching the silver streaks in her dark hair, and he didn’t overthink it. “I got two prizes today, then,” he said, nodding at the trophy table 20 feet away. “First place, and a shot at asking you to dinner. You free Saturday? We can get margaritas, extra salt, then I can buy my dill pickles after.”
She grinned, squeezing his elbow once before she let go, wiping a smudge of chili off the corner of his cheek with her thumb. “Only if you bring a pot of that chili to my nephew’s guide service next weekend. He’s been dying to thank you.”
They walked toward the prize table together, her hand curled loosely around his bicep now, his other hand carrying the half-full pot of chili he’d already decided to send home with her. He spotted her nephew across the lot, waving wildly, holding up a handwritten sign that said “ABOUT TIME YOU STOPPED HIDING, GARZA.” The setting sun gilded the edges of her hoop earrings, and for the first time in two decades, he didn’t feel the weight of that old mistake pressing on his chest.
