Moe Pritchard, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, leaned against the metal leg of his chili cookoff booth and wiped a bead of sweat off his brow with the edge of his oil-stained Carhartt apron. He’d spent three hours the night before smoking the brisket for his entry, and the air around his booth hummed with the sharp, warm scent of cumin, chipotle, and hickory. The October wind bit at his earlobes, carried the twang of a bluegrass fiddle from the stage at the far end of the fairground, and he kicked at a loose piece of hay at his boot, already mentally calculating where he’d put the silly plastic chili pepper trophy if he won for the fourth year running. He’d spent 18 years sticking to small, safe wins like that, ever since his wife left him for a competitive triathlete 12 years her junior, turning down invites to cookouts, setups from friends, even the occasional offer from the librarian who always slipped him extra copies of woodworking magazines. Risk felt stupid, after that.
He looked up when a shadow fell across his pot, and his throat went dry. Lila Marlow, his ex-wife’s younger sister, stood three feet away, holding a chipped plastic sample bowl, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. He hadn’t seen her in 18 years, had skipped every family wedding, funeral, holiday dinner after the split to avoid exactly this: the jolt in his chest he’d always felt around her, the stupid, unspoken crush he’d buried so deep he’d almost convinced himself it wasn’t real. Her dark hair was streaked with silver, pulled back in a thick braid slung over one shoulder, and she wore a faded red flannel, scuffed work boots, and a denim jacket with a patch for the local dog rescue stitched to the breast. She smelled like lavender hand cream and campfire smoke when she stepped closer, her elbow brushing his bicep when she leaned in to sniff the chili.
“Still make the kind that clears your sinuses for three days straight?” she asked, and her voice was lower than he remembered, rough around the edges from years of smoking menthols he’d thought she’d quit in college. He fumbled for a stack of sample spoons, his knuckles brushing hers when he handed one over, and he felt a heat crawl up his neck that had nothing to do with the propane burner under the pot. She took a bite, closed her eyes, and hummed, and Moe had to look away, staring at the hay bales across the way like they were the most interesting thing in the world. He felt stupid, 62 years old, acting like a nervous kid with his first crush, and a twinge of guilt curled in his gut: this was his ex’s sister, for Christ’s sake, he had no business feeling anything but polite courtesy. But when he looked back, she was still watching him, her head tilted, like she could read every stupid thought running through his head.
They talked for an hour, off and on, while he handed out samples to passersby. She told him she’d left her husband two years prior, moved back to the area to run the dog rescue full time, had 17 dogs in her foster care right now, half of them pit bulls people had dumped on the side of the road. He told her about the woodworking shop he ran out of his garage, the birdhouses he sold at the farmers market, the old hound dog Max he’d adopted three years ago that slept on his feet every night. She stood close enough that their shoulders brushed every time someone squeezed past the booth, and she held his eye contact every time they spoke, no awkward looking away, no polite small talk lulls. When the judges announced he’d won first place, whooped and handed him the cheap plastic trophy, she clapped so hard her cheeks turned pink, and she grabbed his arm, her fingers warm through the thick fabric of his flannel, to congratulate him.
By 8 p.m., the fairground was half empty, string lights strung between the posts casting gold glows over the discarded paper plates and half-empty coolers. Lila helped him haul his heavy chili pot and stack of folding chairs to his beat-up 2004 Ford F150, and when everything was loaded, she climbed into the bed of the truck, patted the spot next to her, and pulled two cold IPAs out of her own cooler. He climbed up next to her, their legs brushing when he sat, and they passed the beers back and forth, watching the last of the vendors pack up their tents. The wind had picked up, and she shivered, leaning into his side unconsciously, her shoulder warm against his ribs.
“I always thought she was an idiot, you know,” she said quietly, after a long stretch of silence. She didn’t have to say who she meant. “Left the only guy who ever actually showed up for any of us, for a guy who can’t even remember to call his mom on her birthday.” Moe froze for half a second, then lifted his arm, wrapped it around her shoulders, and pulled her a little closer. She turned her face up to his, her eyes glinting in the light from the distant string lights, and when he leaned down to kiss her, she didn’t pull away. It was slow, unrushed, no fumbling urgency, just the soft press of her lips against his, the faint taste of beer and peppermint lip balm on her tongue, and for the first time in 18 years, that little twinge of guilt didn’t win out over the warm, bright buzz in his chest.
They drove back to his place 20 minutes later, the chili trophy rattling in the cup holder between them, Max barking loud enough to wake the neighbors when they pulled up the driveway. She spotted the half-finished oak dog bed he’d been building for the rescue propped against the wall of the garage when they walked up the steps, laughed, and said she could bring her electric sander over the next day to help him smooth out the rough edges. He hung his Carhartt apron on the hook by the front door, kicked his boots off next to hers, and laced his calloused woodworker’s fingers through hers when she stepped over the threshold.
