Manny Ortega, 62, spent 31 years as a safety inspector on Gulf of Mexico oil rigs, so he’s hardwired to avoid unnecessary risk. That’s why he’d skipped every neighborhood block party, cookout, and holiday potluck since his wife Elaine died eight years prior, had even perfected the art of ducking behind his garage door when the HOA board came around with invitation flyers. The only reason he’s hauling a 40-quart cooler of smoked brisket tacos to the summer food truck festival off Westheimer is his 19-year-old niece, who promised 20 percent off the transmission parts he needs for his half-restored 1978 Ford F-150 if he fills in for her friend’s taco pop-up for four hours. He’s got a timer set on his old flip phone, plans to bolt the second it goes off.
The gut punch hits when she’s telling a story about crashing a wedding in 1988 with her older cousin, and she drops Elaine’s name like it’s something casual, not the word Manny hasn’t said out loud to anyone who isn’t his therapist in three years. He freezes mid-sip of mead, his throat tight. He’d met Lila once, 35 years prior, at his own wedding, she’d been 23, wild-haired, had snuck a flask of tequila into the reception and made Elaine laugh so hard she’d snort champagne out her nose. Shame burns hot in his chest first, sharp and heavy, like he’s doing something unforgivable, flirting with his dead wife’s cousin like Elaine never existed. He mumbles an excuse about needing a soda, walks 20 yards away to lean against an oak tree, splashes cold bottled water on his face, fights the urge to grab his cooler and leave without saying goodbye.
When he walks back 10 minutes later, Lila doesn’t push, doesn’t apologize for mentioning Elaine, just slides him a fresh sample of wildflower mead and says she heard he’d shut everyone out after the hurricane kept him stuck on a rig for 12 days, missing Elaine’s last birthday before the heart attack took her. A group of drunk college kids barrels past them, and she steps in close to avoid getting knocked over, her shoulder pressed firm to his bicep, the heat of her skin seeping through his faded rig work shirt. She looks up at him, her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, and says Elaine used to call him every time she visited, rattle on for 20 minutes about how he’d restored her old VW Beetle for their 10th anniversary, how he’d bring her oysters straight from the Gulf every Friday he was home. Manny doesn’t feel the sharp twist of guilt he expects. He feels light, like someone finally sees him as more than the guy whose wife died, more than the retired rig worker who hides in his garage all day.
