Rico Marquez, 52, has spent the last 16 years restoring vintage Japanese motorcycles out of a converted cinder block garage in East Austin, his nails permanently stained dark at the cuticles from grease, his left forearm crisscrossed with faint burn scars from soldering mishaps. He’s avoided all neighborhood social events since his wife left him 8 years ago, convinced he’s too gruff, too set in his routine of 6am black coffee, 10 hour work days, and frozen bean and cheese burritos for dinner, to make small talk with people who don’t know the difference between a CB750 carburetor and a CX500 alternator. He only agreed to enter the annual neighborhood chili cookoff this year because his regular parts delivery driver Jake threatened to cut off his weekly supply of brisket breakfast tacos from the food truck down the street if he bailed.
The October air bites at his cheeks as the sun dips below the live oak trees, string lights strung between the pavilion posts glowing honey gold, the air thick with the smell of smoked paprika, charred beef, and cheap canned beer. He’s leaning against the leg of his booth, sipping a Lone Star, when a woman leans over his table to grab a stack of paper napkins, her hip brushing his elbow, her hand brushing his where he’s set his beer down. He blinks, recognizes her as Lena, the woman who moved into the old blue craftsman two blocks over three months prior, who runs the pothos and succulent shop on the corner. He’s only ever seen her through the window of her store when he rides past on test runs, and he’d noticed then how her curly auburn hair fell in loose rings around her shoulders, how she always had a smudge of potting soil on her left cheek.
“Sorry about that,” she says, laughing, her voice warm, a little smoky, like she’s been singing along to old folk records all day. She holds up the napkins, nods at the pot of chili simmering on his portable propane burner. “My booth ran out ten minutes ago, and my hands are covered in chili grease. Don’t tell the contest judges I’m stealing supplies from the competition.”
He grunts, nods, tries not to stare at the thick calluses on her fingertips, the faint scar across her knuckle from what looks like a trowel accident. He finds out soon enough she’s the ex-wife of Roger, the most insufferable regular he’s ever had, the guy who’d brought in a 1981 Kawasaki last year, haggled over every single line item on the bill, called Rico three times a week for two months after he picked it up complaining about “weird noises” that turned out to be loose change in his jacket pocket rattling around. The thought makes his stomach twist a little—he doesn’t need drama, doesn’t need Roger showing up at his shop screaming about hitting on his ex-wife. But he can’t look away.
She leans against the booth next to him, their shoulders almost touching, the heat from her arm seeping through his worn plaid flannel shirt. She tries a sample of his brisket chili, blows on it first, takes a bite, and makes a soft, low sound in the back of her throat that makes his neck feel hot under the collar. “Holy shit,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s better than the chili my abuela used to make. I might have to forfeit the contest right now.”
They talk for an hour, the noise of the country cover band playing off to the side fading into background static. He finds out she left Roger six months prior because he told her she was “wasting her life” running a plant shop, that she should quit and stay home to keep the house clean. It hits too close to home—his ex-wife left him because she said he was “wasting his potential” fixing old motorcycles, that he should get a “real job” in an office, wear pressed slacks to work every day. Lena keeps leaning in when she talks, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners when he makes a dry joke about Roger’s stupid jacket change complaint, her hand brushing his bicep when she laughs so hard she snorts a little. She smells like jasmine perfume and smoked chili, and for the first time in 8 years, he doesn’t feel the urge to make an excuse to leave early.
The contest results get announced right as the first faint stars prick the dark blue sky. He wins second place, a $50 gift card to the local hardware store, and Lena cheers so loud the people standing next to them turn to stare. She grabs his wrist as they walk away from the stage, her fingers warm around his sun-worn skin, and pulls him over to the side of the taco truck, out of the crowd. “I have a 1978 CB750 in my garage,” she says, biting her lower lip a little, like she’s nervous to ask. “My dad left it to me before he died, and it’s been sitting there for ten years. Roger said it was a piece of junk, wouldn’t let me pay anyone to fix it. Would you come look at it tomorrow night? I can make honey butter cornbread to go with the leftover chili you have.”
He hesitates for half a second, thinks about Roger showing up at his shop yelling, thinks about how he’s eaten frozen burritos for dinner every night for three weeks, thinks about the way she laughed at his stupid joke, the calluses on her fingers that match his own. He nods.
They exchange numbers, her fingers brushing his when she hands him her phone to type in his contact info. He drives back to his shop after the cookoff ends, the half-empty pot of chili on the passenger seat, the $50 hardware store gift card tucked in his flannel pocket. He pulls into his driveway, checks his phone, and sees a text from her sent two minutes prior, a photo of her holding up a bottle of extra hot habanero sauce, the caption: Don’t forget to bring this tomorrow. I like it spicy.
