Ray Mendez leans against the splintered wooden judge’s booth at the Pima County 4H fair, 62 years old, retired Border Patrol K9 handler turned native desert plant nursery owner, a thin white scar snaking up his left forearm from a 2019 training bite with his late partner Rico. His work boots are caked in red Tucson dust, he’s sipping lukewarm horchata from a styrofoam cup, and he’d planned to hand out the native plant category ribbons in 20 minutes and bolt straight home before the weekend crowds got too thick. He’s avoided casual socializing for eight years, ever since his wife Maria died of ovarian cancer and Rico had to be put down six months later, convinced he’s too set in his gruff, quiet ways to make small talk with anyone who doesn’t know the difference between saguaro and organ pipe cactus root systems.
He spots her before she spots him, of course. Elara Carter, 58, the retired art teacher who bought the crumbling adobe three miles down his dirt road three months prior, the one he’s only ever waved at from the cab of his beat-up F150, too nervous to stop and introduce himself even when he saw her struggling to haul a stack of cinder blocks up her driveway last month. She’s leading a shaggy miniature donkey with a bright blue bandana around its neck toward the pet show pen, her dark braid streaked with silver, paint smudged on the wrist of her flowy cream linen shirt, and when she catches him looking, she grins so wide the corners of her eyes crinkle, and changes direction straight toward him.
He freezes, half-ready to duck behind the booth, before she trips over a loose metal tent stake half-buried in the dust. She stumbles forward, the paper plate of grilled elote in her hand tipping, and lands hard against his chest, one palm splayed over his faded navy flannel to steady herself, the creamy elote cheese and chili powder smearing a three-inch streak down his front. She laughs, warm and throaty, the scent of jasmine lotion drifting off her wrist to wrap around him, and he freezes even more, his hands hovering awkwardly over her elbows for half a second before he remembers to help her stand straight. “Oh my god, I am so sorry,” she says, leaning back just far enough that their faces are 12 inches apart, her hazel eyes crinkling still, no trace of embarrassment, just amusement. “Let me buy you a beer to make up for ruining your shirt. Please. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to talk to you for weeks, this is just the universe giving me a terrible excuse.”
He almost says no, the automatic response he’s given every person who’s invited him anywhere since Maria died, but the sun is gilding the edges of her braid, and she’s still standing so close their knees are brushing, and he nods before he can overthink it. She leads him to the beer tent tucked between the livestock barn and the carnival rides, gets them both cold Modelos, and they sit at a dented picnic table off in the shade, far enough away that the mariachi band playing at the grandstand is just soft background noise. Their knees keep bumping under the table every time one of them shifts, and every time it happens, she doesn’t pull away, just shoots him a little half-smile before leaning in to ask another question about his nursery, about the desert plants he’s spent the last eight years tending. He finds himself telling her about Maria, about Rico, about how he started the nursery because both of them had loved walking the desert trails behind their house on their days off, and she doesn’t look away, doesn’t offer empty platitudes, just nods and says she lost her husband in a motorcycle crash six years ago, that she moved to the desert because he’d always talked about retiring here and opening a little woodworking shop.
The sun dips low over the Santa Catalina Mountains, painting the rock faces pink and orange, and she mentions she’s been trying to plant white sage and ocotillo in her front yard for two months, but every single one has wilted and died within a week. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” she says, leaning in so far her shoulder brushes his, and he can feel the heat of her skin through his shirt, a jolt of something sharp and warm running up his spine that he hasn’t felt in almost a decade. A small, stupid part of him feels guilty, like he’s betraying Maria by feeling this alive, this seen, by a woman who isn’t her, but the bigger, quieter part of him knows Maria would have yelled at him for hiding away in his nursery for eight years, for letting himself turn into a hermit who only talks to his cacti. “I can come by tomorrow, take a look,” he says, and when she grins, she reaches over to brush a fleck of elote cheese off his chin, her thumb grazing the rough stubble on his jaw, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away.
They stay at the fair another hour, watch the donkey costume contest, split a plate of churros dusted with cinnamon, and when they leave, he follows her down the dirt road back to her adobe, his headlights picking up jackrabbits darting across the road ahead of him. She’s got her porch lights on when they pull into the driveway, strung with fairy lights wrapped around the support posts, and she walks over to his truck window, leaning in so her face is lit up gold by the dashboard light. “I’ve got a bottle of mezcal on the porch, if you want to stay for a little while before you head home,” she says, and he turns the truck off, grabs his worn straw cowboy hat off the passenger seat, and pushes the door open to step out onto her gravel driveway.
