Javi Mendez, 58, retired border patrol K9 handler, had dragged himself to the county fire department’s annual brisket cookoff only because his former patrol partner had threatened to drop off a litter of foster puppies on his porch if he didn’t leave the house. He’d spent the last three years holed up in his single-story ranch on the edge of town, fixing up old dog kennels for the local animal shelter and avoiding any social event that required more than a three-sentence conversation. His worst flaw, his late wife had always joked, was that he’d follow a rule even if it was written in pencil on a napkin by a drunk guy. He’d never argued with her.
He was picking at a dry end of brisket on a paper plate when she walked up, wearing cutoff denim shorts and a faded Willie Nelson tee, hair pulled back in a messy braid streaked with a single streak of silver at the temple. It took him three full seconds to place her: Lila Marquez, his wife’s second cousin, the kid who’d snuck out of his guest room one summer when she was 19 to go to a river bonfire, and who he’d driven home at 2 a.m. covered in mud, too soft to yell at her even when she’d lied about where she was going. She was 42 now, ran a gourmet popsicle truck out of Austin, had moved back to the area three months prior to take care of her sick dad.
She leaned in to hug him before he could step back, her shoulder pressing firm against his chest, the smell of mesquite smoke and coconut sunscreen wrapping around him sharp and warm. “You haven’t changed one bit,” she said, stepping back but staying close enough that their boots almost touched, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners when she grinned. “Still wearing that same beat-up Stetson, still look like you’re one wrong move away from writing someone a ticket.” He huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck where a scar from a 2017 K9 training bite ran thin and white. The last thing he needed right now was to be standing too close to a woman who made his chest feel tight, who was technically family, who was young enough that people would stare if they saw them together.
He made a half-assed excuse about needing to get a beer, but she followed him to the drink table, chattering about how her popsicle truck was doing, how she’d seen his old K9 Max’s photo hanging up at the shelter. When a group of rowdy teen volunteers ran past with a tray of lemonade, she stumbled into him, her hand landing flat on his forearm, her fingers curling slightly around the muscle there before she pulled back, apologizing, her cheeks pink. He didn’t move away. He should have. He’d spent three years telling himself he didn’t get to want anything other than quiet, that wanting anything else was a betrayal of the 27 years he’d had with his wife. But Lila was looking at him like she saw him, not just the grieving widower everyone in town treated like a fragile holiday decoration.
When the band at the cookoff cranked up a terrible cover of a George Strait song, she leaned in so her mouth was almost at his ear, her breath warm against his jaw. “You wanna get out of here? There’s a creek behind the station, I used to go there when I was visiting your wife as a kid.” He hesitated for a full ten seconds, every rule-following bone in his body screaming that this was a bad idea, that people would talk, that he had no business being alone with a woman he’d known since she was a teenager. But then she smiled, that same lopsided grin she’d had when she’d talked her way out of a ticket from him 23 years prior, and he nodded.
They walked the quarter mile down the dirt path to the creek, no one talking, the noise of the cookoff fading behind them until all they could hear was crickets and the gurgle of water over rocks. She sat down on a fallen oak log at the edge of the water, patting the spot next to her, and he sat, leaving six inches of space between them. She didn’t let that last long, shifting closer until their thighs were pressed together, the heat of her leg seeping through his worn denim jeans. She picked up his left hand, turning it over to trace the scars on his knuckles from when Max had bitten him protecting a group of migrant kids from a coyote a decade back. “I remember you telling me about that,” she said, soft, her thumb brushing over the raised scar tissue slow, like she was memorizing it. “I always thought you were the best man I ever knew. Even when you were being a hardass and driving me home from that bonfire.”
He felt his throat go tight. He’d spent so long feeling guilty for even noticing another woman, for wanting to stop feeling like half a person, that he’d forgotten what it felt like to be seen as something other than a widower. “This feels wrong,” he said, even as he didn’t pull his hand away. “You’re family adjacent. I’m old enough to be your dad.” She laughed, quiet, and leaned in so her forehead was almost touching his. “We’re not actually related. And I’ve had a crush on you since I was 19, Javi. I didn’t move back here just to take care of my dad.”
The sun dipped below the treeline, painting the sky pink and orange, fireflies starting to blink on above the creek. He tilted his head down, kissing her slow, gentle, like he was scared she’d disappear if he moved too fast. She kissed him back, her hand tangling in the hair at the back of his neck, no rush, no pressure. When a bullfrog croaked loud from the reeds beside them, she laughed against his mouth, and he didn’t pull away.
