Manny Ruiz, 62, spent 30 years as a Border Patrol canine handler before retiring after his wife Elaina’s death eight years prior. His only consistent company these days is the rotation of rescue blue heeler and German shepherd pups he fosters, and he avoids small town community events like the annual Wilson County Chili Cookoff like they’re a bad batch of undercooked beans. His neighbor had to bribe him with a full case of iced-down Shiner Bock to even show up to the afterparty at the dive bar on the edge of town, and he’d already snuck out twice to check on the 10-week-old heeler pup napping in the back of his beat-up Ford F-150.
The bar reeks of smoked brisket, stale beer, and the sweet, acrid tang of chili powder dusted on every surface. The jukebox blares mid-90s George Strait, the floor sticks to the soles of his scuffed work boots, and every time someone recognizes him, they pat his shoulder and make a sad comment about how good it is to see him out, which makes his jaw tight. He’s lingering by the walk-in cooler at the back of the bar, half-hidden behind a stack of cardboard beer cases, when someone reaches past him for a lime seltzer, their bare forearm brushing the sleeve of his faded flannel. He flinches, turns to apologize, and freezes when he meets her eyes.
He’d only met Lila Marquez once, eight years prior, at Elaina’s funeral. She was Elaina’s first cousin, 14 years younger than his wife, ran a vegan tamale food truck out of Austin, and he’d barely spoken two words to her that day, too wrapped up in his own fog of grief to register much of anything beyond the feel of the casket handle under his palm. Now she’s standing two feet away, a smudge of bright red chili powder high on her left cheek, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid streaked with a single strand of silver, wearing a worn denim jacket with her food truck’s logo embroidered on the chest. She grins when she recognizes him, and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes are so similar to Elaina’s that his chest aches for half a second before something warmer, sharper, curls in his gut.
She teases him about still wearing the same tooled leather belt Elaina got him for their 25th anniversary, and he blinks, shocked anyone would notice that. He’d worn that belt every day for 17 years, the leather soft as butter from constant use, the silver buckle scuffed from years of leaning against K-9 crate doors. She says she talked to Elaina on the phone a week before she died, and Elaina had complained that Manny had been eating nothing but frozen burritos and store-bought potato salad for three months straight, too busy training a new patrol dog to cook for himself. “She told me if I ever ran into you after she was gone, I had to force you to eat a decent meal,” Lila says, leaning against the cooler next to him, her shoulder pressing lightly into his bicep. “Said you were too stubborn to ask anyone for help, even when you were starving.”
He tenses up immediately, his first instinct to shut down, to tell her he’s fine, he doesn’t need anyone looking out for him, that even casual flirting with his wife’s cousin feels like a betrayal so sharp it makes his teeth hurt. But then she laughs, and the sound is bright, not pitying, and she points out the window to where his truck is parked, the heeler pup’s tiny face pressed against the back window, wagging his tail so hard his whole body wiggles. “You brought a puppy to a chili cookoff?” she says, already walking toward the door, and he follows her without thinking, his boots thudding against the sticky linoleum.
The November air is cold enough to make his nose run, the sky dark and spangled with stars, no city glow for miles. He opens the back door of the truck, and the pup launches out, straight into Lila’s arms, licking her chin and leaving a streak of slobber on her denim jacket. She laughs again, holding the pup close, and he watches her, his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, and realizes he hasn’t felt this light, this unburdened by the weight of his own grief, in years. He reaches out without thinking, his thumb brushing the smudge of chili powder off her cheek, her skin warm under his touch, and she doesn’t pull away. She just looks up at him, her dark eyes soft, and says she’s thought about him off and on for eight years, didn’t want to overstep, didn’t want to make him feel like she was trying to take Elaina’s place.
He doesn’t say anything for a long minute, just watches the pup gnaw on the end of her braid. He’d spent eight years convincing himself that any joy, any connection, any kind of new life would be a slap in the face to the 32 years he’d spent with the woman he’d loved since he was 19. But Elaina had always told him he was too stubborn for his own good, that if she went first, she expected him to go fishing, to eat good food, to stop moping around the house like a lost dog. “No one’s asking you to forget her,” Lila says, like she can read his mind, and the pup yips, like he’s agreeing.
He says there’s a 24/7 diner 10 miles up Highway 97 that makes green chile cheeseburgers so messy you need three napkins to finish them, and the fries are crispy enough to break a tooth if you bite too hard. She grins, shifting the pup to one hip, and says she’ll follow him there, as long as the pup gets a bite of the burger. He nods, opening the truck door for her to set the pup back in the backseat, his hand brushing hers when he takes the pup from her. He climbs into the driver’s seat, turns the key, the truck rumbling to life, and glances in the rearview mirror as she climbs into her bright blue food truck, waving through the windshield. He lifts a hand to wave back, the faint scent of citrus and cumin still lingering on the tip of his thumb.
