Manny Ruiz, 62, retired Border Patrol K9 handler turned mobile dog groomer for Tucson’s senior pet owners, had dragged himself to the east side community fish fry only because 82-year-old Mrs. Henderson, his longest-running client, had threatened to stop tipping him in homemade pecan pies if he spent another Saturday cooped up in his van watching old westerns. He’d lost his wife Rita to ovarian cancer eight years prior, and had built up a very intentional wall between himself and anything that resembled romantic interest, convinced even a passing glance at another woman was a betrayal of the 32 years they’d spent together, fostering 17 rescue dogs and camping every spring in the Coronado National Forest.
He was leaning against a splintered pine picnic table, half-way through a cold Modelo, when he heard that laugh. Low, warm, a little rough around the edges from decades of smoking menthols she’d finally quit three years prior. He knew it before he turned around. Lila Marlow, 58, his former partner’s ex-wife, the woman he’d carried a quiet, completely unacted-upon crush on for 20 years, back when the four of them would spend weekends hauling their K9s out to the desert for training runs and potlucks. Her husband, his partner Jake, had died in an ATV crash outside Tombstone three years prior, and Manny had avoided every event he thought she might be at since, too guilty to face the tiny, persistent spark he’d never been able to stamp out, even when all four of them were happy and married.
She spotted him before he could duck around the picnic table. She froze for half a second, silver hoop earrings catching the golden 6 p.m. sun, then walked over, bare legs dusted with sand from the volleyball court, wearing the same faded sunflower print sundress he’d seen her wear at Jake’s 40th birthday party. She stood close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and the tang of fried catfish on her fingers, and when she reached to pluck the crumpled empty paper plate out of his free hand, their knuckles brushed. He flinched like he’d been burned, and she smiled, the corners of her hazel eyes crinkling the same way they did when she used to sneak him extra brownies at unit potlucks when Rita was on a low-sugar diet.
“Thought you’d hidden yourself away for good,” she said, not pulling her hand back right away, the tip of her index finger grazing the scar on his wrist from a run-in with a drug smuggler’s pit bull back in 2011. He didn’t move away. The hum of the portable generators powering the fryers buzzed in his ears, and the sticky Tucson heat clung to the back of his neck, his work boots sinking a little into the soft, grassy mud from the afternoon rainstorm.
They ended up sitting on the lowered tailgate of his grooming van, away from the crowd of families yelling over each other and kids chasing a tiny chihuahua in a cowboy hat across the field. They talked about Jake first, about Rita, about the dogs they’d lost over the years, the way Jake used to burn every batch of ribs he tried to grill, the way Rita used to paint watercolors of the desert sunsets and leave them on Lila’s porch for no reason. Manny admitted the crush he’d carried, how guilty he’d felt for it for two decades, how he’d avoided her because he thought he was a terrible person for even looking at his partner’s wife that way. She laughed, loud enough that a couple walking by glanced over, and nudged his shoulder with hers, the rough cotton of her dress catching on the frayed cuff of his work shirt.
She was close enough now that he could see the tiny flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, the little gray strands mixed in with her dark brown hair pulled back in a loose braid. He’d spent 20 years telling himself this was wrong, that wanting anything with her was a betrayal of both Jake and Rita, but sitting there, with the smell of fried catfish and coconut sunscreen hanging in the air, the guilt didn’t feel like a weight anymore. It felt like a secret they’d both been carrying, no longer heavy enough to hold them back. He reached up, slowly, like he was approaching a skittish rescue dog, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just smiled, and rested her hand on top of his where it lingered by her jaw.
They agreed to meet for coffee the next morning at the little diner off Speedway, the one they all used to go to after late shifts, no pressure, no expectations, just to talk more. She walked back to her beat-up Subaru as the sun dipped below the Santa Catalina Mountains, painting the sky pink and orange, and waved over her shoulder before she got in. Manny sat on the tailgate for another 10 minutes, finishing his beer, watching her taillights disappear down the road, and reached into his pocket to text Mrs. Henderson that she could save him an extra slice of pecan pie next week.
