Javi Mendez is 59, a vintage travel trailer restorer who’s made a comfortable living bringing rotting 1960s Airstreams and beaten-down Scotty Sportsmen back to life out of his cinder block shop on the edge of Fredericksburg, Texas. He’s a lifelong bachelor, still carries the scar across his left knuckle from punching a wall when his fiancée left him for an oil rig roughneck in 1992, and he’s got a well-earned reputation for being gruff, short on small talk, and allergic to any event that requires wearing something without a grease stain. The only exception is the annual town chili cookoff, where he’s spent four years trying to take the top prize from Ron Parsons, the loudmouth general contractor who’s won three years running and once called Javi’s prize 1962 Airstream restoration a “tin can for broke hippies.”
The October air smells like cumin, hickory smoke, and burnt beer the afternoon of the cookoff, and Javi’s leaning against his crockpot sipping a Shiner Bock when Lena Parsons walks up. He recognizes her immediately, even though she’s usually hidden behind a folding table selling Ron’s terrible “Chili Champ” branded koozies every year. She’s 44, a pottery teacher who runs a small studio out of her garage, and today she’s wearing high-waisted jeans and a faded Willie Nelson tee, a faint smudge of terracotta clay smudged under her jawline that she hasn’t bothered to wipe off. She leans in without preamble, her elbow brushing his bicep through his worn Carhartt shirt when she reaches for a sample cup, and he catches the scent of cedar and orange blossom hand soap over the chili fumes.
“Ron’s over schmoozing the judges,” she says, nodding toward the other end of the park where Ron is holding court, waving a plastic spoon like it’s a trophy. Her voice is low, warm, like she’s sharing a secret. “Told him I was grabbing water. His chili’s got too much brown sugar and canned beans this year. I knew you’d have the good stuff.”
Javi snorts, handing her a plastic spoon. He’s acutely aware of the space between them, how she doesn’t step back after taking the cup, how her knee brushes his when she shifts her weight to lean against the picnic table next to his booth. He’s spent years avoiding even casual conversation with her, partly because of the stupid rivalry with Ron, partly because the first time he saw her, three years prior, he’d felt a stupid, unfamiliar flutter in his chest that he’d immediately written off as indigestion. The last thing he needs is town gossip calling him the guy who fools around with his rival’s wife.
He tastes the chili, pretends he’s checking the seasoning, so he has an excuse not to talk for a second. She laughs when she takes her first bite, coughing a little at the heat, and swats his arm playfully. Her hand is cool from holding a can of sparkling water, her nails painted the same terracotta as the clay smudge on her jaw, chipped at the edges like she’d been throwing mugs that morning. “You’re evil,” she says, grinning. “I love it. Ron thinks spice is for people who don’t know how to cook. I told him he’s full of shit.”
They talk for 20 minutes, Javi half convinced Ron is going to storm over and start a fight any second, but he can’t make himself step away. She tells him she drives past his shop every morning on her way to the studio, watches him sand the Airstream hulls with his old radio blaring Tejano classics, that she dropped off a custom mug order for Ron last month and noticed he had a six pack of Shiner Hexenshaft in his minifridge, her favorite. He tells her about the trailer he’s finishing up for a couple from Portland, how he’s been working on it for six months, how he almost quit last week when he found rot in the floorboards. He doesn’t remember the last time he told a stranger that much about his work, let alone someone married to the guy he hates.
The judges announce the winners an hour later, and Javi’s name gets called for first place. Ron’s face goes bright red, he throws his plastic spoon on the ground, mutters something about cheating, and storms off to the bar down the street without even glancing at Lena. She snorts, leaning her shoulder fully against Javi’s now, and pulls a cold six pack of Hexenshaft out of her canvas tote. “Knew you’d win,” she says, holding a can out to him. Her fingers brush his when he takes it, and she holds eye contact for three beats longer than she should, no smirk, no tease, just quiet, unmistakeable interest.
Javi’s chest feels tight, the old voice in his head yelling that this is a bad idea, that he’s going to get dragged into drama he doesn’t want, that he’s better off alone in his shop with his trailers and his radio. But then he looks at the clay smudge on her jaw, the chipped nail polish, the way she’s not making a big deal out of any of it, and the voice goes quiet. He nods toward the end of the park, where his shop is visible half a mile down the road. “Got a propane fire pit behind the shop,” he says. “The Airstream’s finished. Has a fold-out couch that’s way more comfortable than it looks.”
