Javi Mendez, 52, retired transmission lineman, shifts his weight on the folding chair by the beer tent, left knee throbbing a little from the 2019 line repair fall that pushed him into early retirement. The air smells like smoked brisket, cumin-heavy chili, and the sweet cut grass of the East Texas town park, peanut shells crunching under his scuffed steel toe boots every time he adjusts his stance. He only agreed to come to the annual fire department chili cookoff because his old lineman buddy begged him to man the tornado relief sign-up table, the storm that ripped through the county three weeks prior left 17 families homeless and a dozen barns flattened. He’d avoided every public town event for 12 years on purpose, mostly to skip running into Lena Hart, his ex-wife’s cousin, the woman he’d screamed at so loud during a 2011 wiring dispute at her pet grooming shop that half the block came outside to watch.
He’s halfway through his second cheap lager when he sees her walk up, faded denim shirt unbuttoned at the collar, cutoff shorts showing the faint scar on her left calf from when she got bit by a foster pit bull two years prior, work boots caked in golden retriever hair, silver hoops glinting in the golden hour sun. His jaw tightens automatically, old anger flaring before he can tamp it down. She leans past him to grab a bottle of water from the cooler under his table, her bare forearm brushing his, the callus on her wrist from holding dog clippers eight hours a day rough against the scar on his own forearm from a downed power line. She freezes, then lifts her head, dark eyes locking onto his for three full beats, no flinch, no eye roll, just a slow, lopsided smirk.
“Still wear those same steel toes that scuffed my brand new shop floor?” she says, popping the cap off her water and taking a long sip, not stepping back, her shoulder inches from his bicep.
Javi huffs, a half laugh he can’t hold back. “Still let your golden retriever chew through every extension cord you buy? I found three chewed through behind your dryer that day, you know. I didn’t cut corners on your wiring. The old owner who flipped the place did.”
Her smirk softens, and she tucks a strand of curly dark hair behind her ear. “I found that out six months later. Hired an electrician to fix the dryer outlet, he told me the whole place was wired like a fire waiting to happen. I’ve been meaning to apologize. Just never saw you around. Heard you stayed holed up on your property fixing that old 1987 Grady White.”
The old anger fizzles out fast, replaced by a warm twist low in his gut he hasn’t felt in years. He admits he avoided every town event just to not run into her, that he was still raw from the divorce when they fought, took his frustration out on her for no reason. She leans in closer when he talks about the tornado relief effort, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep for ten full seconds while she points to the line on the sign-up sheet for people willing to foster pets that lost their homes in the storm. He can smell coconut shampoo and cedar dog shampoo on her hair, hear the distant sound of kids screaming on the bounce house behind them, feel the heat of her arm through his worn flannel shirt.
He fights the urge to tuck that stray strand of hair behind her ear himself, half disgusted with how fast he wants her, how stupid the 12 years of silence feels now, how wrong it should be to want his ex-wife’s cousin, the woman he once swore he’d never speak to again. She tells him she’s been fostering three puppies that got separated from their owner when the tornado hit, that she’s been single for three years after her ex left her for a bartender in Dallas. He tells her he hasn’t dated seriously since the divorce, spends most of his time on his boat or at the county animal shelter, that he’s been thinking about fostering a dog for months.
The fire department siren blares to announce the chili contest winner, and the crowd surges forward, a teen carrying a stack of chili bowls slamming into Lena’s back. She stumbles forward into Javi’s chest, and he wraps his arms around her waist automatically to steady her, his calloused hands fitting perfectly against the curve of her hips. They’re inches apart, he can taste the lime she was sucking on on her breath, see the faint freckles across her nose he never noticed before. She tilts her chin up, and he kisses her, slow, no rush, the sound of the crowd fading out for a second, the old grudge vanishing entirely.
When they pull back, she laughs, swatting his chest playfully, her fingers lingering on the flannel over his heart. She says she’s got leftover green chili at her place, and the three foster puppies are curled up on her couch, if he wants to come see them. He nods, grabs the half-full sign-up sheet to hand off to his buddy who’s wandering over with a grinning smirk, laces his fingers through hers, her calluses fitting perfectly against his. He doesn’t even glance at the crowd, doesn’t care if half the town is talking about them already, doesn’t care what his ex-wife will say when she hears. He just squeezes her hand, and follows her toward the exit, the crunch of peanut shells under their boots matching the fast, steady beat of his heart.
