Manny Ruiz is 62, a retired border patrol canine handler who’s lived in the same West Texas cinder block house for 34 years. His biggest flaw is that he’s stubborn to a fault—for eight years after his wife, Lila, passed from ovarian cancer, he’s turned down every dinner invite, every blind date, every casual advance from women in town, convinced any new connection would be a betrayal of the 28 years he had with Lila. He spends most of his days fixing up old hunting rifles, hiking the desert trails with Zorro, his 7-year-old German shepherd and the last pup from his former K9 partner’s litter, and perfecting Lila’s chili recipe, the only one he’s ever made since they got married.
He’s camped in the far corner of the community park for the annual town chili cookoff, his folding chair propped up against a mesquite tree, Zorro curled at his feet, when she wanders over. He knows who she is—Lila Mae Carter, the 54-year-old elementary school art teacher who moved to town six months prior, the subject of every other coffee shop gossip session because she’s been divorced twice, has a sunflower tattoo on her wrist, and once told the town’s mayor his “patriotic” lawn display looked like a cheap flea market explosion. The general consensus is she’s trouble, and Manny has spent six months actively avoiding her, not wanting his name added to the list of men the town whispers about alongside hers.
Zorro beats him to saying hello, trotting over to nudge her hand with his wet nose before she’s ten feet away. She laughs, a rough, warm sound that cuts through the twang of the country band playing on the small stage and the hum of hundreds of people chatting over crockpots of chili. She’s wearing a faded red flannel rolled up to her elbows, jeans cuffed at the ankle, work boots caked in clay, and there’s a smudge of cayenne pepper high on her left cheek. She scratches Zorro behind the ears for a full minute before she looks up at Manny, and her hazel eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles.
“Thought this was yours,” she says, stepping closer, her shoulder brushing his bicep when she leans down to give Zorro a belly rub. Manny freezes for half a second. He can smell sage and orange blossom on her, under the sharp scent of chili powder and smoked sausage hanging in the air. He watches a strand of her chestnut hair fall in front of her face, and it takes every bit of his self control not to reach up and tuck it behind her ear. He’s torn so sharp it almost hurts—part of him is screaming to say hello, ask her name like he doesn’t already know, let her stay, and the other part is scanning the crowd, knowing half the town is already glancing their way, already gearing up to talk about him for the next month.
He mumbles a greeting, offers her a paper cup of his chili, and she takes it, her fingers brushing his when she grabs the cup. Her skin is warmer than he expects, calloused at the fingertips, like she works with her hands a lot, which makes sense for an art teacher who spends half her days molding clay with 8-year-olds. She takes a bite, moans soft enough that only he and Zorro can hear it, and Manny’s throat goes dry. “This tastes exactly like my mom’s,” she says, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “I’ve been trying to replicate her recipe since she passed three years ago, I can never get the cumin to chipotle ratio right.”
They talk for 45 minutes straight, while people wander past to try Manny’s chili, while Zorro dozes at their feet, while the sun dips lower in the sky, painting the clouds pink and tangerine. She leans in every time he talks, like she’s actually listening, like she doesn’t care that three different groups of town matrons have walked past and glowered at her. When the announcer calls Manny’s name for first place, she cheers louder than anyone, clapping so hard her cheeks flush. He walks up to get the $200 prize and the dinky plastic trophy shaped like a chili pepper, and when he comes back down, she’s holding a cold longneck beer for him, held out with both hands.
Their fingers brush again when he takes it, and this time, he doesn’t pull away. He knows the whole town is watching, knows they’ll be talking about this at the diner for weeks, knows they’ll say he’s moving on too fast, that he’s messing around with the town troublemaker, that he’s disgracing Lila’s memory. But none of that feels as important as the way she’s looking at him, like he’s the only person in the park, like she doesn’t care about any of the gossip either. He hesitates for two beats, then asks her if she wants to come back to his place, he’ll write down Lila’s chili recipe for her, and he’s got a cast iron skillet of cornbread cooling on his kitchen counter that goes perfect with it.
She says yes immediately, grinning so wide the cayenne smudge on her cheek crinkles. They pack up his crockpot and his folding chair an hour later, Zorro trotting between them, carrying the plastic chili trophy in his mouth like it’s a prize he won himself. She loops her arm through his when they cross the gravel parking lot, the heat of her arm seeping through his worn denim jacket, and mentions she’s never been stargazing out in the desert west of town, no one’s ever offered to take her. Manny tells her he’s got a thick wool blanket and a cooler full of beer in the back of his truck, and he knows a spot on a bluff ten miles out where you can see every star in the sky, no streetlights to ruin the view.
When she leans up to press a quick, warm kiss to his jaw before she climbs into the passenger seat, Zorro huffs and nudges his hand like he’s giving his approval.
