Javier leans against the dented aluminum beer cooler at the annual Presidio County chili cookoff, Modelo sweating through the cuff of his frayed navy flannel, sun searing the back of his neck. He only showed up because his next door neighbor, a retired school teacher named Marnie, begged him to judge the brisket category, said no one else in town knew the difference between a good dry rub and a bottle of store-bought BBQ sauce. He’d planned to stay an hour, tops, grab a couple slices of brisket, skip the small talk, head home to finish sanding the stock on a 1968 Winchester Model 70 he’d picked up at a garage sale the week before. 62 years old, retired border patrol K9 handler, he’d spent the seven years since his wife Maria passed from ovarian cancer clinging to routine, avoiding community events where people would give him that soft pitying look and ask how he was holding up.
He spots her before she spots him. Elara Voss, 58, Maria’s cousin, the woman he’s spent 18 years actively avoiding, ever since they’d screamed at each other over a 12-foot strip of desert property between their two lots at the 2005 family Christmas. She’s carrying a crockpot slung over one shoulder, faded denim shirt unbuttoned at the collar, cutoff shorts showing the scar on her left calf from a horseback riding accident he’d forgotten she’d had. Her dark hair is streaked with silver, tied back with a red bandana, and she’s laughing at something the guy running the taco stand said, crinkles fanning out at the corners of her hazel eyes. He tenses, half ready to duck behind the cooler, but she looks right at him, smirks, and walks over before he can move.
She teases him first, says she heard he was the brisket judge, threatens to slip extra chipotle in his sample if he doesn’t give her first place for her chili, the one with cocoa powder and ancho chiles that Maria used to beg her to make for family dinners. The comment stings at first, sharp as the edge of a hunting knife, and he’s about to snap back when she holds up her hands, grinning softer now, says she found the hand-drawn 1947 property survey in a box of Maria’s old things when she was cleaning out her late mom’s storage unit last month. Turns out the 12-foot strip was his all along. He blinks, the retort he’d been building dying in his throat. He’d spent almost two decades resenting her, convinced she’d lied to steal the land to build a guest house, and she’d been wrong too.
She reaches past him to grab a root beer from the cooler, her hip brushing his hard enough that he can feel the warmth of her skin through their jeans, her forearm brushing the calloused knuckles of his hand where it rests on the cooler edge. He catches a whiff of lavender perfume and mesquite smoke on her shirt, and for half a second he forgets how to breathe. The mariachi band set up by the park bandstand starts playing a slow cumbia, kids screaming as they chase each other with water guns, the smell of smoked meat and chili powder thick in the hot air. She stays close, leaning against the cooler next to him, no longer teasing, just talking about how she moved back to town last month after closing her floral shop in Austin, got divorced two years prior, was sick of the traffic and the pretentious food and the way no one knew your name. He finds himself talking back, telling her about the rescue dogs he trains, the Winchester he’s restoring, how he still makes Maria’s favorite enchiladas every Sunday even though he can never get the sauce right.
The cookoff wraps up right as the sun starts to dip below the desert hills, painting the sky pink and burnt orange. She’s the one who asks first, says she has the survey back at her casita, a half mile down the road from his house, invites him over for a shot of tequila to make up for 18 years of both of them being stubborn idiots. He hesitates for half a second, thinks about the rifle waiting for him at home, the quiet he’s grown used to, then nods. Her casita is exactly how he remembers it, terracotta tile floors, shelves lined with potted succulents, old family photos taped to the fridge. She pours two shots of reposado, hands him one with a wedge of lime, and they sit on the weathered wooden porch swing overlooking the valley.
Their knees knock when she leans over to grab the ashtray off the porch rail, and when she sits back she doesn’t move her leg away, letting it press against his. She holds his gaze for three long seconds, no smirk, no bickering, just soft, and he leans in before he can overthink it, kissing her slow. She tastes like lime and tequila and the chocolate chili she made earlier, threads her fingers through the graying hair at the nape of his neck, and he doesn’t pull away, all the old anger melting off his shoulders like butter on warm bread. They stay on the swing for an hour after, wrapped in a frayed wool blanket she keeps draped over the back, crickets chirping loud in the brush, the faint sound of the mariachi band still drifting over from the park.
He shoves the folded property survey into the pocket of his jeans when she hands it to him, tells her he doesn’t care about the 12-foot strip anymore, never really did, just hated that they’d fought in front of Maria that Christmas. She laughs, rests her head on his shoulder, and he can feel the weight of it warm through his flannel shirt. He reaches for his phone to text his neighbor that he won’t be making the weekly poker game tomorrow, no explanation needed.
