Manny Ruiz, 53, has made a career out of reading small tells: the way a pitcher’s left shoulder twitches right before he throws a curveball, the split-second flicker of fear in a hitter’s eyes when a fastball buzzes his ear, the quiet lie in a coach’s voice when he says a prospect’s off-field habits are “no big deal.” It’s a skill that’s served him well as a minor league scout for the Texas Rangers, but it’s failed him completely when it comes to reading his own grief. For three years after his wife Elara died in a car crash, he’s dodged every neighborhood cookout, holiday party, and annual taco crawl, convinced the pitying looks and awkward small talk would be worse than the silence of his empty bungalow. He only caved this year when his next door neighbor practically banged his door down, raving about a new taco spot serving brisket marinated in Modelo, Elara’s go-to beer.
The October air is still warm enough for short sleeves when he shows up, string lights strung between the live oak trees over the street, the smell of grilled meat and charred corn and cilantro thick enough to taste. He’s holding a plastic cup of horchata, waiting in line at the new spot, when he hears a laugh so bright it makes him jump. He looks up, and there she is behind the counter, flour dusted on her forearm, a braid slung over her shoulder tied with a frayed red ribbon exactly like the ones Elara used to wear to their college baseball games. It takes him three full seconds to place her: Lena Marquez, his best friend Javi’s youngest sister, the kid he’d caught sneaking cigarettes behind the high school dugout when she was 16, the one who’d stolen half of Elara’s old 90s concert tees before she moved to Portland for culinary school 15 years prior.
She spots him at the same time, her hands stilling mid-tortilla press for half a beat before she grins so wide her cheeks dimple. She leans over the counter, and when she passes him a free sample brisket taco, her knuckles brush his wrist, the callus on her index finger from rolling hundreds of tortillas a day rough and warm against his skin. He can smell lime and cinnamon gum on her breath when she says, “Manny Ruiz. I half thought you’d hole up in that bungalow forever watching old game tapes.” He blinks, the crunch of pickled onion on the taco sharp in his mouth, and says the first thing that comes to mind: “Last time I saw you, you were grounded for a month because I ratted you out to Javi for smoking.” She snorts, wiping her hands on her denim apron, and says, “I hated you for that. For, like, a whole seven days.”
He stays in line longer than he planned, leaning against the counter while she works, telling her about the prospect he’d scouted last week in Amarillo who could throw 98 mph but cried when his dog ran onto the field mid-game. He doesn’t talk about Elara, not at first, but she brings her up unprompted, says Elara used to send her care packages full of Texas chili mix and Mexican candy when she was in culinary school, that the brisket marinade she’s using is the exact recipe Elara wrote down for her in a birthday card three months before she died. The words hit him like a soft punch to the chest, and for a second he wants to leave, feels the old guilt twist in his gut—he shouldn’t be here, laughing with Javi’s little sister, feeling something warm unfurl in his chest that isn’t grief. But she doesn’t look at him like he’s a broken widower, doesn’t pat his arm and say she’s sorry for his loss. She just rolls another tortilla, winks, and says, “Elara always said you were too stubborn to let yourself have fun.”
When her teenaged employee bails early to go to a football game, Manny offers to help her carry a crate of limes around the back to the storage closet. The alley is quiet, the hum of the grill’s generator the only sound besides the distant mariachi band playing down the street, the string lights dimmer back here, gilding the edges of her braid. She trips over a loose cinder block halfway to the closet, and he catches her without thinking, his hands firm on her waist, her body warm and solid against his. She tilts her chin up to look at him, her dark eyes soft, no hint of the kid he used to know, and says, “You know, I had a crush on you back then. Thought you were the coolest guy alive, driving that beat up Ford truck to all the games.” He blinks, surprised, and laughs, the sound rough in his throat. “I had no idea. I thought you thought I was just Javi’s annoying friend who ratted you out.”
She doesn’t step back, and he doesn’t move his hands. She leans in a fraction, her breath fanning over his jaw, and he kisses her before he can talk himself out of it, slow and gentle, not too much, just enough to taste the lime and cinnamon on her lips. When he pulls back, he’s half waiting for the guilt to hit, but it doesn’t. It feels right, like Elara’s off somewhere laughing at him for taking so long to stop hiding. He huffs a quiet laugh, resting his forehead against hers, and says, “Javi’s gonna kill me when he finds out.” She grins, running her thumb along the brim of his worn Missions baseball cap, and says, “Javi owes me 20 bucks. I bet him I could get you to come to the crawl this year. He said you’d never leave your house.”
He helps her carry the limes inside, and stays late after the crawl ends to help her fold up the tables and load the leftover supplies into her car. When they’re done, she hands him a cold Modelo, and they sit on the tailgate of his beat up Ford, eating leftover brisket tacos while the last of the crowd drifts down the street, the mariachi band packing up their instruments in the distance. She leans her head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around her, the flannel of her shirt soft under his palm, the beer cold in his other hand, the taco still warm on his tongue. For the first time in three years, he doesn’t feel like he’s just passing time, waiting for the quiet to swallow him whole. He leans down, kisses the top of her head, and watches a group of kids run past with glow sticks tied around their wrists, laughing so loud it echoes off the brick buildings.
