Rafe Cortez, 61, has been making custom work boots for Austin’s ranchers, construction crews, and weekend line dancers for 27 years. He’s got a scar slicing through his left eyebrow from a time a customer’s spooked horse kicked a leather hide into his face, and a stubborn streak a mile wide: he’s refused to raise his base price more than 12% since 2018, even when leather costs spiked 30% last year, and he hasn’t gone on a single date since his ex-wife left him for a real estate broker 11 years prior. His biggest flaw, if you ask his only remaining close friend, is that he’s written off every woman within 10 years of his age as either stuck up, bitter, or looking for a free ride to a comfortable retirement.
He’d only agreed to set up a booth at the east side chili cookoff to sell the custom leather koozies he stitched in his shop’s down time, mostly to get his friend off his back about “getting out of the shop and around people.” The new city ordinance banning wood-fired cooking at all outdoor public events had half the attendees grumbling under their breath, the other half sneaking small camp stoves and portable fire pits into their booth setups when the park rangers weren’t looking. The booth next to his was run by Lila, his ex-wife’s 11-years-younger sister, the same girl he’d remembered tagging along on their camping trips when she was 17, covered in acne and obsessed with 90s pop punk.
She didn’t look like that anymore. She cut her hair into a choppy silver-streaked bob, had a tiny sunflower tattoo curling around her left wrist, and wore faded denim overalls over a thin white tank top that showed the freckles across her shoulders when she leaned over the shared barrier between their booths to grab a stack of paper bowls. The first time they touched, they both reached down to grab the same fallen bottle of sparkling water that rolled off his table during a gust of wind, her bare forearm brushing the hair on his, and he jumped like he’d been burned. He smelled jasmine perfume mixed with the cumin and chili powder wafting off her simmering pot, and roasted corn from the food truck three rows over, and for a second he forgot how to speak.
He spent the first two hours of the cookoff actively avoiding eye contact, angry at himself for even noticing how her laugh carried over the noise of the crowd, how she rolled her eyes when the HOA rep walked by lecturing people about the fire ban, how she snuck a splash of bourbon into her chili pot when no one was looking. It felt wrong, dirty almost, to be looking at his ex-wife’s sister like that, like he was breaking some unspoken rule he’d agreed to when he got married all those years ago. But every time he turned around, she was looking back, a small smirk on her face like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
She brought him a bowl of chili around 3 p.m., sliding it across the barrier between them, her knuckles brushing his when he took it from her. “I added the smoked paprika you used to rave about,” she said, holding his gaze for three full beats longer than she needed to, “Kathy always thought it was too spicy, but I knew you’d like it.” It was better than any chili he’d had in years, warm and rich with a slow burn that lingered on his tongue, and he told her so, his throat tighter than it should have been.
They bantered through the rest of the afternoon, swapping stories about the old days, making fun of the guy in the sequined cowboy costume walking around taking selfies with attendees, complaining about the city council’s boneheaded fire ban that didn’t apply to the fancy downtown food festivals. When the awards were handed out, she took second place in the spicy category, pumping her fist in the air and whooping so loud the people two booths over turned to stare.
By the time the event wrapped up, a steady, cold October rain was pouring down, turning the grass under their feet into thick, squelching mud. He offered to help her load her coolers and folding tables into her beat-up pickup truck, and they huddled under the edge of his booth’s awning waiting for a break in the downpour, their shoulders pressed so tight together he could feel the heat of her body through his thick flannel shirt.
“I had a crush on you, you know,” she said, so quiet he almost didn’t hear it over the drumming of the rain on the vinyl awning. “When I was 17. Kathy used to make fun of me for it.” He turned to look at her, and she was already leaning in, her lips half parted, and he didn’t stop to think about the rules, or his ex-wife, or the grudge he’d been carrying for 11 years. He kissed her, soft at first, then deeper when her hand curled around the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the graying hair at his nape. He tasted the sweet peach iced tea she’d been sipping all afternoon, and the faint tang of chili on her lips, and for the first time in over a decade, he didn’t feel like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
When they pulled apart, she grinned up at him, wiping the smudge of chili powder off his cheek with her thumb. “Meet me for breakfast at that taco spot on 6th tomorrow,” she said, already stepping out into the rain to grab her first cooler. “7 a.m. Don’t be late.” He nodded, watching her hoist the cooler over her shoulder like it weighed nothing, the rain soaking through the shoulders of her overalls. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the small custom leather keychain he’d stitched with her name and a tiny sunflower earlier that afternoon, the thing he’d been too scared to give her all day. He tucked it back into his jacket pocket, already planning to add a small loop for her key fob before he showed up the next morning. He unlocked his own truck, the rain dripping off the brim of his beat-up cowboy hat, and smiled when he saw her wave at him through her truck window before she pulled out of the parking lot.
