Ray Mendez, 52, only showed up to the Black Mountain annual chili cook-off because Mrs. Henderson, his 82-year-old next door neighbor who left peach pies on his porch every Sunday, showed up at his barn at 2 p.m. sharp and threatened to hide all his socket sets if he didn’t enter his brisket chili. He’d spent the last three years in the tiny mountain town restoring vintage campers for clients across the Southeast, keeping to himself, avoiding any event that required small talk with people who always looked at him like he was one wrong comment away from breaking. He leaned against a splintered pine picnic table, sipping a lukewarm Pabst, watching a group of kids chase a golden retriever through a pile of crumpled red oak leaves, and was already mentally mapping the fastest route back to his barn when someone stumbled into his left side.
A drop of chili, thick and dotted with black beans, splattered on the cuff of his worn gray flannel. He looked down, then up, and found Elara Voss, the 48-year-old part-time librarian who’d moved to town three months prior, holding a dented paper bowl and looking sheepish. She’d checked out three books on Airstream restoration from the library two weeks prior, had asked the front desk who the local restoration guy was, and Ray had pretended he wasn’t home when she knocked on his door a few days later, too used to his quiet to let a stranger in. She grabbed a crumpled napkin from her jeans pocket, leaned in close enough that he could smell jasmine lotion and cinnamon on her shirt, and dabbed at the stain, her fingers brushing the coarse hair on his wrist for half a second. He flinched before he could stop himself, and she pulled back, holding her hands up in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Relax, I’m not gonna bite. I’ve just been dying to meet the hermit who turns rusted trailers into luxury homes, and spilling chili on you seemed like a better icebreaker than showing up at your door twice.”
The bluegrass band off to the side struck up a slow cover of a Johnny Cash song, and Ray didn’t step back when she shifted her weight and leaned against the picnic table next to him, their shoulders brushing every time someone walked past. He hated the way his chest felt tight, the way he was fighting the urge to lean into the warmth of her arm, the stupid little flutter in his stomach he hadn’t felt since his wife, Lila, died of breast cancer six years prior. For half a decade, he’d told himself he didn’t need anyone, that the hum of his sanders and the quiet of the mountains at night were enough, that letting someone new in would be a betrayal. But Elara didn’t ask him if he was okay, didn’t mention the widow story everyone in town had clearly passed around. She just teased him for entering a chili with no silly name, told him her entry, a spicy vegetarian chili with sweet potato, was gonna beat his, and handed him a bite of hers, her fingers brushing his when he took the cold plastic spoon from her. The chili was good, better than he expected, and he laughed when she winked and said “Told you so.”
When the emcee got on the mic to announce the winners 20 minutes later, Ray was still there, his Pabst long gone, listening to her tell a story about a kid who checked out 12 dinosaur books in one week and tried to check out a live lizard he’d caught as a “library resource.” He won first place, and Elara whooped so loud half the crowd turned to look at them, grabbing his hand and yanking him toward the stage before he could protest. He didn’t pull away, his palm fitting against hers like it belonged there, the calluses on her fingers from gardening matching the calluses on his from sanding metal. The prize was a $50 gift card to the local feed store and a tacky bright red ceramic chili pot shaped like a pepper, and when they handed it to him, he turned to Elara, his throat tight, and asked her if she wanted to come back to his barn. He told her he had a 1972 Airstream he was almost done restoring, a six pack of local IPA in his fridge, and enough leftover brisket chili to feed both of them twice over.
She nodded immediately, her thumb brushing the back of his hand, and said she’d been waiting for him to ask ever since he’d pretended he wasn’t home when she knocked. They left 15 minutes later, Ray carrying the stupid ceramic chili pot in one hand, her knit jacket slung over his other arm, Elara walking so close her hip bumped his every other step. The air smelled like wood smoke and fallen leaves, the bluegrass band was still playing in the distance, and for the first time in six years, Ray didn’t find himself counting down the minutes until he could be alone. He unlocked the passenger door of his beat-up Ford F-150, set the chili pot on the floorboard, and held his hand out to help her climb in.
