Ray Voss, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service hotshot crew lead, wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead with the back of a calloused hand, the faint white scar across his left knuckle catching the string lights strung above his chili booth. He’d taken third place for the third year running, same beef and bean recipe his late wife had taught him in 1992, the one with a secret splash of bourbon he never told the judges about. The air smelled like cumin, burnt wood from the nearby fire pit, and cheap cotton candy the local 4-H club was selling out of a pop-up tent. A kid with a face streaked pink ran past, yelling, and Ray huffed a quiet laugh, twisting the cap off a Pabst Blue Ribbon he’d stashed under the table.
He was tucking a stack of sample napkins back into a crate when she stepped up to the booth, and for half a second he didn’t recognize her. Lila, his wife’s younger cousin, the one who’d skipped town after high school and hadn’t been back since the funeral seven years prior. Her hair was longer now, streaked with silver at the temples that matched the worn silver band she wore on her index finger, and she had on high-waisted jeans scuffed at the knees, a faded Johnny Cash tee, and a red flannel tied tight around her waist. She held a crumpled paper plate in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of her jacket, and she grinned when she saw him, the same gap between her two front teeth he remembered from when she was 12 and crashing their summer camping trips.
“Still making that same chili you refused to share the recipe for back in 2010?” she said, leaning in across the booth, her shoulder brushing his bicep as she craned to sniff the pot simmering on the portable burner. He caught a whiff of vanilla lotion and pine, like she’d hiked the trail up to the ridge before coming down to the cookoff, and his throat went dry for a second. He’d spent seven years actively shutting down any thought of anyone that wasn’t his wife, had turned down half a dozen dates with women from the church and the local bar, had convinced himself that wanting anything else was a betrayal. So the jolt that ran up his arm when she reached for a plastic sample spoon and her fingers brushed his scarred knuckle made him flinch, hard enough that he spilled a drop of beer on his Carhartt shirt.
He mumbled an apology, swiping at the wet spot with a napkin, and she laughed, soft, not mocking. “Easy there, hotshot. I don’t bite unless you ask.” He felt his face heat up, something he hadn’t experienced since he was 16 and asking his wife to prom, and he grunted, scooping a spoonful of chili into a small paper cup for her. She tasted it, closing her eyes for a second, and hummed. “Just as good as I remembered. I used to sneak bowls of it when you guys weren’t looking, back when I’d visit for Thanksgiving.”
They talked for 40 minutes, the crowd around the booth thinning as the sun dipped lower, the sky turning soft orange over the mountains to the west. She told him she’d moved back to town two months prior, bought the old coffee shop on Main Street, was planning on adding a section for used outdoor gear next spring. He told her about the trail he hiked every Wednesday, the one up to the overlook that he and his wife used to drive up to to watch sunsets after the cookoff every year. She nodded, said she hiked that same trail on Wednesdays too, had seen his beat up blue Ford F-150 parked at the trailhead a handful of times but hadn’t wanted to bother him.
The fire department announced the pie auction winner over the loudspeaker, and the crowd cheered, surging toward the stage. No one was looking at them, not anymore, and she leaned in a little closer, her arm pressed fully to his now, the rough fabric of her jacket rubbing against his skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. “I skipped the after party at the Silver Spur,” she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear it, the sound of the crowd fading to a hum in the background. “Was wondering if you wanted to drive up to that overlook. The sunset’s supposed to be good tonight.”
Ray froze, his grip on his beer bottle tightening until his knuckles turned white. He thought about the gossip that would spread if anyone saw them driving up there together, how the whole town would talk, how they’d call him disrespectful, call her a homewrecker, even though they’d never been anything more than polite to each other before that day. He thought about the photo of his wife on his dashboard, the one of her grinning with a fish she’d caught on their first camping trip, and the guilt twisted in his gut, sharp and hot. But then he looked at Lila, her lower lip tucked between her teeth, waiting, and he remembered his wife laughing at him a month before she died, telling him he was being an idiot if he thought he had to be alone for the rest of his life just because she was leaving.
He nodded, and her face lit up, bright enough that it outshone the string lights strung above them. He folded up the table cloth, stuffed the leftover chili into a cooler in the back of his truck, and held the passenger door open for her. When she stepped up, his hand brushed the small of her back, light, almost accidental, but neither of them pulled away. The drive up the mountain took 12 minutes, the radio playing old Merle Haggard songs low, neither of them talking, the silence comfortable instead of awkward.
They pulled into the overlook parking lot, empty save for a single deer that darted into the trees when they shut the doors. The valley below was lit up with the cookoff’s string lights, the distant sound of the crowd floating up to them, faint and soft. She pulled two more beers out of her bag, handing one to him, and their fingers brushed when he took it, this time intentional, no flinching. He leaned against the hood of the truck, and she stepped next to him, her shoulder pressed to his, the cold October air nipping at his cheeks. When she rested her head on his shoulder, he moved his hand to rest on her knee, calloused from decades of holding axes and fire hoses, and she laced her fingers through his, the silver band on her index finger cool against his skin.
