Rico Marquez is 52, makes his living restoring vintage campers for folks who drive cross-country to his small eastern Oregon shop, and has spent the last three years actively avoiding every community event within a 20 mile radius. His ex-wife left him for a Portland realtor and spent six months painting him as the bitter, reclusive deadbeat to anyone who’d listen, so he got used to keeping his head down, sticking to his 1968 Airstream behind the shop and his weekly fishing trips with Tom, the retired feed store owner. The only reason he’s at the annual chili cookoff in the town park is Tom begged him to bring his green hatch chili, the one he makes with pork shoulder he smokes himself, and promised he wouldn’t have to make small talk with anyone who’d dated his ex.
He’s leaning against the side of the beer truck, nursing a cold IPA, when she slams into his left elbow, rushing to grab a handful of napkins for a kid who’d just dumped a bowl of red chili all over his dinosaur shirt. Her bare foot catches on a loose patch of grass, and he grabs her elbow to steady her, his calloused fingers wrapping around soft, sun-warmed skin. She smells like coconut shampoo and roasted chili, wears faded cutoff jeans and a threadbare Willie Nelson tee, a smudge of chili powder on her left cheek. He recognizes her immediately: Lila, the new pastor’s wife, who’d dropped off a tattered 1972 Scotty camper manual at his shop last week, asking for tips on patching a leak in the aluminum siding. She’d been wearing a frumpy linen dress that day, hair pulled back in a tight bun, and he’d barely looked at her for longer than ten seconds, scared the church ladies would see them talking and start spinning stories.
She laughs, breathless, when she realizes who he is, and leans in a little so he can hear her over the mariachi band playing on the stage across the park. “I’ve been meaning to call you,” she says, and her knee brushes his when she shifts her weight to avoid a group of teens carrying a keg past. “That leak got worse after that rainstorm last weekend, I tried patching it myself and ended up with sealant all over my favorite jeans.” He snorts, tells her about the time he glued his entire left hand to the roof of a 1965 Airstream, had to wait two hours for Tom to bring him acetone, and she laughs so hard she snorts, clapping a hand over her mouth like she’s scared someone will hear. He’s hyper aware of every point of contact between them: the occasional brush of her arm when she gestures, the way her shoulder presses into his when a group of people walk by too close, the way her eyes lock onto his when he talks about the work he does, no polite, bored glaze he’s used to from most people when he rambles about camper specs.
The conflict nags at him the whole time they’re talking. She’s the pastor’s wife. The entire town watches her every move, gossips about what she wears to service, if she drinks wine at the diner, if she stays late enough at the church office. He’s the guy the church ladies warn their daughters away from, the bitter divorced guy who lives in an Airstream and doesn’t show up to Sunday service. He should leave. He should say goodbye, go home, eat cold chili out of a Tupperware and watch old westerns like he planned. But he hasn’t felt this light in years, hasn’t even let himself look at another woman since his ex left, hasn’t had a conversation that didn’t revolve around camper parts or his ex’s latest drama, and when she leans in even closer, her breath warm against his ear, he doesn’t pull away.
“My husband’s at a conference in Boise for the next three days,” she says, and there’s a heat in her voice he hasn’t heard since before his marriage fell apart. “The Scotty’s parked at the edge of our property, no one can see it from the road. You wanna come take a look later? I’ve got cold beer in the fridge.” He hesitates, glances over at the group of church ladies sitting at a picnic table 50 feet away, staring at them over their iced tea glasses. He thinks about the gossip, about the way people will talk, about how hard he worked to rebuild his reputation after the divorce. Then she brushes a smudge of chili off his flannel shirt, her fingers lingering on his chest for half a second, and he nods.
They leave separately, ten minutes apart, so no one gets suspicious. He stops at his shop to grab the specialized patching kit he keeps in his toolbox, a six pack of the IPA he was drinking, and a pack of cherry Sour Patch Kids he keeps stashed for when kids come in the shop with their parents. He pulls out onto the road leading out of town, and sees her pickup truck a block ahead of him, a frayed “Willie For President” bumper sticker stuck to the tailgate. The sun is dipping below the sagebrush hills, painting the sky pink and tangerine, and he rolls his window down, lets the warm, pine-scented wind hit his face. When she glances in her rearview mirror, he lifts the patching kit in his hand to wave, and she holds her hand out the window, fingers curled in a lazy, knowing wave back.
