Manny Ruiz, 53, has restored 17 vintage campers in the four years since his divorce, each one stripped down to the aluminum frame, rewired, reupholstered, turned into something better than it was when it rolled off the factory line. He’s stubborn to a fault, has avoided every local social event in his small Texas Hill Country town for three straight years, convinced dating anyone within a 20 mile radius will only lead to grocery store gossip and awkward run-ins at the feed store. His only regular social interaction is swapping hunting stories with his high school buddy Jeb, who begged him to enter the annual fire department chili cookoff this year, said the department was short on entries and everyone still talked about Manny’s smoked brisket chili from back before his ex moved to Austin.
He caved, set up a folding table under a white canopy strung with flickering fairy lights, the air thick with the smell of mesquite smoke, cumin, and cheap light beer. The sun hung low over the oak trees, painting the sky pink and orange, when Lena Marlow walked up to his booth. She’s the part-time EMT who moved to town six months prior, sharp-tongued, quick to laugh, wears beat-up work boots even when she’s not on shift, and Manny has gone out of his way to avoid her for three months straight, because every time they cross paths his tongue gets thick and he fumbles his words, a reaction he finds equal parts humiliating and impossible to shake.
She leaned in close to sniff the pot of chili simmering on the portable propane burner, her bare shoulder brushing the sleeve of his faded work shirt, the fabric still stained with aluminum polish from a 1968 Shasta he’d been sanding that morning. He froze, his hand hovering over the ladle, when she lifted her head and locked eyes with him, her dark brown irises glinting with amusement like she knew exactly how flustered he was. She wore a cut-off pair of denim shorts and a too-big fire department tee, a few strands of chestnut hair stuck to the sweat glistening on her neck, a smudge of charcoal on her left cheek from helping the fire crew light the grills earlier that afternoon.
“Smells better than any of the other entries I’ve tried so far,” she said, nodding at the chili pot, and when she reached for a paper sample cup on the edge of the table their fingers brushed. Manny fumbled the ladle, a dollop of chili splattering on the soft skin of her wrist, and he grabbed a paper napkin out of the stack beside him, dabbing at the mess before he could overthink it. His thumb brushed the pulse point on her wrist, and he felt her heartbeat jump, just a little, before he pulled his hand away like he’d been burned.
He expected her to tease him for being clumsy, but she just smiled, slow and warm, and leaned against the table beside him, close enough that he could smell the coconut sunscreen she wore mixed with the smoke from the cookoff fires. They talked for 20 minutes, her teasing him about the half-restored 1972 Airstream parked outside his workshop that she’d driven past a dozen times, him admitting he’d been avoiding her because he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. She laughed, the sound bright over the noise of the crowd and the country music playing from the speakers by the stage, and told him she’d been intentionally dropping off his neighbor’s escape artist golden retriever at his shop twice a week just to have an excuse to talk to him.
When the MC announced the winners over the speaker, Manny took second place, and before he could process it Lena grabbed his hand, lacing her fingers through his, and pulled him into a quick side hug, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered that his chili was definitely first place in her book, and that she was free next weekend if he wanted to take that Airstream out to Big Bend for a few days, like he’d mentioned he wanted to do once it was finished. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t overthink the gossip or the what-ifs that had stopped him for three years, just squeezed her hand and said yes.
They left the cookoff early, walking side by side through the gravel parking lot to his beat-up 1998 Ford F-150, their shoulders bumping every few steps. He opened the passenger door for her, and before she climbed in she leaned in, pressing a soft, quick kiss to his stubbled cheek, the scent of her sunscreen lingering on his skin long after she’d sat down and pulled the door shut. He got in the driver’s seat, turned the key, the old truck rumbling to life, and didn’t even glance in the rearview mirror to see if anyone was watching them drive off.
