Russell “Rust” Mendez, 62, spent 38 years climbing utility poles for the Kerr County power co-op before he retired, his left knee still creaks when the humidity spikes, and he’s carried a grudge so heavy against his late ex-wife for 18 years it’s worn a permanent furrow between his brows. He’d avoided the annual town chili cookoff for years, mostly because he didn’t feel like fielding prying questions about why he still lives alone, why he never brought a date, why he still wears the same beat-up work boots he had back when he was married. His neighbor practically begged him to judge the savory category this year, said no one else knows good Texas chili like a guy who’s eaten it out of a dented thermos on ice storm callouts at 2 a.m., so he caved.
He’s leaning against the post of the beer tent, half-empty cup of Shiner Bock in one hand, grease stain on the knee of his Wranglers from fixing a fence that morning, when someone bumps his elbow hard enough to slosh cold beer down his wrist. He spins around ready to snap, and comes face to face with Lila Marquez. He’d know that face anywhere. She was his ex-wife’s maid of honor, the woman who’d stood next to her at the altar, the woman he’d spent 12 years of family dinners and holiday parties avoiding because he’d always had a stupid, unspoken crush on her that made his throat feel tight every time she spoke. She’s 59 now, silver streaks in her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, faded high-waisted jeans, linen button-down tied at the waist, silver hoops that catch the sun, and she smells like lavender and smoked paprika, like she’s been stirring chili all morning.
She laughs, swiping a napkin off the nearby table and dabbing at his wrist before he can stop her. Her fingers are warm, calloused at the tips from the pottery studio she runs out of her barn west of town, and he has to fight the urge to flinch away, because no woman has touched him on purpose in longer than he can remember. “Sorry about that,” she says, holding his gaze longer than polite, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Was chasing my runaway dog, he stole a cornbread muffin off someone’s plate. I should’ve been watching where I was going.” He mumbles that it’s fine, goes to turn back to the beer tent, and she stops him, her hand light on his forearm. “I heard you’re judging today. I entered my chili. Figured I’d butter you up first.”
The conflict hits him square in the chest then, hot and sharp. He still remembers the day his ex told him she was leaving, remembers seeing Lila’s car parked out front of their house an hour before, remembers thinking she was there to talk his ex out of it. He later found out she’d known about the affair for six whole months, never said a word. “You knew,” he says, before he can stop himself, his voice gruffer than he means it to be. “You knew she was cheating, and you never told me.” Her smile fades, she nods, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and he can see the guilt in her face, plain as day. “I did. I hated myself for it. I tried to get her to tell you, over and over. She said she’d cut me off if I said anything. I was 41, stupid, had been friends with her since we were 10. I was a coward.”
He doesn’t know what to say, so he just stares at her, the sound of the George Strait cover band playing off in the distance, the smell of mesquite smoke curling through the air, kids screaming as they chase each other with water guns. She pulls a small paper sample cup out of her pocket, holds it out to him, and when he takes it their fingers brush, sending a jolt up his arm he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager sneaking around with his high school girlfriend. The chili is perfect, smoky, a little spicy, hint of dark chocolate and cumin, no beans, exactly the way he likes it. He blinks, looks up at her, and she’s grinning again, soft this time, no teasing edge. “I remembered you hated beans in chili. Back at the 2003 Super Bowl party, you yelled at my ex for putting kidney beans in his batch.”
They wander over to an empty picnic table under the big oak tree at the edge of the fairgrounds, away from the crowd, and sit down. She tells him she got divorced 10 years ago, her ex left her for a 22-year-old barista, she’s been running the pottery studio alone ever since, sells her mugs and bowls at farmers markets across the hill country. He tells her about his fishing trips, about fixing old tractors for the local farmers, about how he’d thought about selling his house and moving to New Mexico a few years back, but never had the guts to go through with it. She leans in close when he talks, her knee brushing his every time she shifts, and he can feel the heat of her leg through the denim of their jeans, can smell her perfume mixing with the smoke from the cook fires.
He admits it first, quiet, like he’s confessing to a sin. “I had a crush on you, back when I was married. Always felt guilty as hell about it.” She doesn’t look surprised, just nods, takes a sip of her own beer, her fingers brushing his where they rest on the table between them. “I knew. I could tell. I had a crush on you too. Used to look forward to those stupid holiday parties just to talk to you. I felt guilty for years, like I was betraying my best friend. Then when she died, I didn’t know if I should reach out. Figured you’d hate me for not telling you about the affair.”
The sun dips low below the treeline, painting the sky pink and orange, when they announce the cookoff winners over the loudspeaker. She wins third place in the savory category, gets a hand-thrown ceramic trophy made by one of her pottery students. He carries it for her when she walks to her beat-up pickup truck parked down the road, the ceramic cool and smooth under his fingers. When they get to her truck, he hands her the trophy, and she leans up, kisses him soft on the cheek, her lips warm against his sunburned skin. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she says, grinning, climbing into the driver’s seat. “I’ll bring you a whole jar of that chili. No strings attached.”
He stands there in the gravel parking lot, watching her taillights disappear down the dirt road, the place where her lips touched his cheek still tingling. He’d spent 18 years angry, closed off, convinced he’d never feel anything close to excitement again, and here he was, giddy as a kid on Christmas Eve, just from a single kiss on the cheek and a promise of chili. He lifts his half-empty beer cup in a quiet toast to the empty spot where her truck was parked, the ghost of her lavender perfume still clinging to the cuff of his flannel shirt.
