Rudy Galvan is 62, retired power lineman, spent 38 years yanking transformers up poles and patching downed lines after Ohio thunderstorms, calluses so thick on his palms he can hold a hot coffee mug for ten minutes without a sleeve. His wife, Ellen, passed four years prior from lung cancer, and he’s spent every day since sticking to the same routine: feed the two barn cats out back, fix whatever broken thing the neighbor kids drag to his porch, volunteer at every town event to stay busy enough he doesn’t have to think about the empty side of the bed. His biggest flaw? He’s spent his whole life caring what other people think, to the point he turned down a fishing trip with his old crew last year because someone at the grocery store made an offhand comment about him “partying now that he’s single.”
The annual fire department chili cookoff is the first cool Saturday of October, air sharp with wood smoke and crushed maple leaves, the parking lot of the station strung with orange string lights that blink when the wind picks up. Rudy’s manning the beer tent, wearing the faded navy lineman jacket he’s had since 1998, frayed at the cuffs where he’s picked at the stitching when he’s nervous. He’s already turned down three separate attempts from the church ladies to set him up with their widowed sisters, laughing it off but feeling that twist of guilt in his gut every time, like even entertaining the idea is a slap to Ellen’s memory.
Mara Carter shows up ten minutes before the chili entries are due, boots caked in mud from mending a fence line on the old farm she bought three months prior, flannel shirt unbuttoned over a faded Tom Petty band tee, a jar of bright red chili held in one hand, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid streaked with silver. She leans over the beer tent counter, the edge of her sleeve brushing his knuckles as she reaches for an IPA from the cooler, and he catches a whiff of cedar soap and lavender lotion, sharp enough to cut through the smell of chili and burnt hot dogs floating through the lot. She holds eye contact when she thanks him, grinning when he glances at the jar in her hand and admits he’s never eaten anything spicier than mild taco sauce, Ellen having hated any food that made her eyes water.
They talk for ten minutes while the judges tabulate scores, her leaning her hip against the tent pole, him forgetting to hand beers to the people waiting in line a few times because he’s too busy listening to her talk about restoring the vintage quilts she sells out of her front room. She’s 58, her husband died six years before in a logging accident up in Michigan, she moved here to be closer to her brother, the town vet, because she got sick of everyone in her old town treating her like a fragile widow instead of a woman who could split her own firewood and reupholster a couch in an afternoon. When her chili wins first place, she grabs his wrist to drag him over to the winners table, her hand warm even through the thick fabric of his jacket, and he feels that jolt of something he hasn’t felt in decades, half excitement, half sharp, uncomfortable guilt, like he’s doing something wrong just letting her touch him.
After the cookoff wraps up, they end up sitting on the tailgate of his beat up 2007 F150, her wrapped in his jacket because she forgot hers, passing the half-eaten jar of her habanero chili between them. He takes a bite, and it burns so bad his eyes water, he coughs so hard he snorts, and she laughs so hard she snorts right back, handing him a beer to wash it down. Their fingers brush when he takes the bottle from her, and he tenses up, ready to pull away, to mumble an apology, to make an excuse to go home. She doesn’t let go, not at first, her thumb brushing the callus on the side of his hand, and she says she knows what that guilt feels like, like you’re betraying the person you lost just by breathing too easy without them. He admits he hasn’t been alone with a woman that wasn’t his sister or daughter in four years, that he’s spent every night since Ellen died telling himself he doesn’t deserve to be happy again.
She leans in slow, not fast enough to scare him, brushes a crumb of chili off his chin with her other hand, her fingers warm against his stubble, and she says no one’s keeping score, least of all the person who loved you enough to want you to be happy even when they’re gone. He doesn’t kiss her, not yet, he’s still too nervous, still too worried that someone from town will drive by and see them, but he doesn’t pull away either, sits there long enough that his legs go numb, watching the last of the sun dip below the corn fields across the road.
He walks her to her beat up Subaru when it gets too cold to sit outside, she hands him back his jacket, slips a crumpled piece of paper with her cell number scrawled on it in the pocket before she climbs in, says she’s making pork tamales next Saturday if he wants to stop by, no pressure, just good food and maybe another beer. He drives home slow, the windows rolled down, the cold air stinging his cheeks, and he pulls the paper out of his pocket as soon as he pulls in the driveway, dials the number before he can talk himself out of it. She picks up on the second ring, laughing when he stammers through asking if she wants a ride to the grocery store to pick up masa on Friday, says she was hoping he’d call. He holds the phone to his ear, grinning so wide his cheeks ache, when she says she’ll save him the first tamale off the steamer, extra spicy, just to see him snort again.
