Page 21 of The Lonely Road

Garlic. Yellow onions. Fresh cilantro. Limes.

Green Pueblo chiles—grown in the Arkansas River Valley—are meaty, bold, with a heat that lingers instead of burning out.

I grab a handful, then reach for the Hatch chiles Jay gets in from New Mexico, because I like the mix.

Dried Chimayó red chiles for the broth—deep, earthy, the kind of flavor that tastes like it took time to build.

Two cans of black beans, because not every meal has to be a project.

Blue cornmeal. I still make my own tortillas when I have the time.

Then I veer and pick up a box of bronze-cut pasta—the kind that holds sauce properly.

San Marzano tomatoes. Jay might mark things up, but he gets the good stuff.

Parmesan that costs more than it should.

The good olive oil—something Jay started stocking a year ago when health food made its way to Wildflower Canyon, and people suddenly developed strong opinions about cooking fats.

I stand there for a second, taking in everything in my basket.

Half of it is the food I grew up with.

The other half is the life I built somewhere else.

None of it feels like a contradiction anymore.

With the basket growing heavier with each step, I reach the coffee section. Jay carries four options, which is three more than I’d expected when I moved here, when I become aware that someone came down the aisle behind me.

I know before I turn.

I can’t explain how.

Sometimes you’re meant to meet the people you meet.

Wíitsin used to say that.

Mason Brooks is holding a basket with one item in it—a six-pack of Bud. He comes to stand next to me and stares at the same four coffee options as me.

“Counselor.”

“Mr. Brooks.”

“Still with the mister?”

I shrug in response, my heart beating fast at his closeness. He wears cologne. Something spicy and musky.

Down girl! Your heart is still healing, no reason to mess with that process by getting involved with a man who is just passing through.

He glances at the shelves. “Is there a correct answer here?”

I point without hesitation. “Third from the left. Hawaiian Kona. Everything else is okay. That one is actually good.”

He takes it off the shelf and puts it in his basket without hesitation.

“You shop here often?”

“For everything but coffee, and then only because I forget to order online. Jay’s markup on coffee is criminal.”