Milo Rojas, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, had spent four hours tending his oak-fed smoker at the county’s annual rib cookoff before he bumped into anyone he didn’t already know. His flannel sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms dusted with hickory ash, calloused fingertips stained dark from restaining a neighbor’s porch railings the day before, work boots caked in clods of lawn clipping mud from mowing his yard that morning. He’d avoided dating entirely since his wife left him eight years prior, convinced his perpetually rough hands and habit of wearing work boots to every community event made him too unpolished for anyone worth his time. He’d come to the cookoff alone, as he did most events, planning to drop off his rib entry, eat a few pulled pork sliders, and head home by 7 to finish a custom cutting board for the local food bank.
He turned to grab a root beer from the cooler at his feet, and his shoulder collided with soft linen, the bottle sloshing a mouthful of sugary soda down the front of a cream-colored button-down. He started to apologize, already reaching for a crumpled stack of paper towels, when he heard her laugh, warm and low, and his throat went dry. Lila Marlow, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the woman he’d only met once at his wedding 25 years prior, when he’d carved a tiny wood shim to fix the broken heel of her bridesmaid shoe. She was 48 now, auburn hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, a tiny scar wrapping around her left wrist that she’d told him back then came from falling off an untrained quarter horse when she was 12. She held up her hands to wave off his apology, and her knuckle brushed his when he passed her a paper towel, her skin cool from holding a cold peach seltzer, condensation dripping down her forearm to pool at the edge of her watch band.
The air around them reeked of burnt sugar, tangy vinegar-based sauce, and charcoal smoke, a country cover band playing slow, twangy covers of 90s rock from the stage two rows over. She leaned in to hear him over the noise, her shoulder pressed to his bicep through the thin flannel, and he could smell jasmine and coconut sunscreen on her skin. She told him she’d moved back to town two weeks prior, finalizing her divorce from a real estate developer in Scottsdale, and bought the old craftsman bungalow three blocks from his house, the one with the rotting original wood trim around the front windows he’d admired for years. He nodded, half listening, his brain fighting between the instinct to step back, to remind himself she was still family to his ex, that people would talk if they saw them together, and the louder, sharper pull of wanting to stay right where he was, close enough to count the faint freckles across her nose.
He offered her a sample of his ribs, holding the paper plate out, and she took it, her elbow brushing his again when she reached for an extra napkin. She took a bite, moaning soft enough that only he could hear, and said they were better than any ribs she’d had in Arizona, that she’d forgotten how good midwestern barbecue was. He felt his ears go red, and he looked away, pretending to adjust the vent on the crackling smoker, when she laughed again and said she’d always remembered him, that he was the only person at that wedding who didn’t treat her like the annoying kid cousin who’d shown up drunk.
By the time the awards were announced, Milo had forgotten all about his cutting board, about the plans he’d made to be home before dark. He’d won third place in the ribs category, a cheap plastic trophy he handed off to a grinning 10-year-old hanging around his booth asking for extra sauce, and Lila had stayed the whole time, leaning against the side of his dented 2004 Ford F150, asking him about his woodworking, about what it was like teaching teens to use table saws without losing a finger. The sun started to dip below the treeline, painting the sky streaky pink and tangerine, and the crowd thinned out, most people heading home or to the beer tent for the afterparty. They sat on the tailgate of his truck, passing a half rack of leftover ribs back and forth, and she got a smudge of sticky barbecue sauce on her chin.
He reached out before he could think better of it, wiping the sauce off with the pad of his thumb, and she didn’t pull away. She tilted her chin up, looking at him through half-lidded eyes, and he kissed her, slow, the taste of peach seltzer and sweet molasses sauce on her lips. He didn’t feel guilty, didn’t care if someone he knew saw them, didn’t spare a single thought for his ex-wife or the stupid, self-imposed rules he’d made for himself after she left.
She pulled back first, grinning, and asked if he could come over the next morning to look at the trim on her house, bring a few samples of oak stain and his hand planer. He said yes, before she finished the question. He drove home that night with the windows down, the warm summer air blowing through the edges of his faded Sturgis cap, and he didn’t turn on the radio, just listened to the crickets chirp from the ditches along the road. He pulled into his driveway, parked the truck, and spotted the half-finished cutting board on his workbench through the garage window, and he smiled, already looking forward to waking up early the next day.
