Jaxson Marlow, 59, retired high-voltage lineman, leaned against the dented aluminum beer trailer at the county fire department’s annual chili cookoff, wishing he’d told his old crew partner to go to hell when he’d begged Jax to judge the extra-hot category. It was mid-October, the air sharp enough to make the tip of his nose tingle, wood smoke curling up from the food tents in wispy grey streaks, and half the people here had already cornered him to ask how he was “holding up” three years after his wife’s death. He hated that question. Hated the soft, pitying eyes that came with it, hated that everyone still saw him as the guy whose wife got sick too young, not the guy who’d climbed 60-foot poles in ice storms to keep their power on, who could rebuild a carburetor blindfolded, who’d won this same chili cookoff four times before the cancer hit.
He’d been staring at the scuffed toes of his work boots for five minutes when he felt a soft, warm shoulder brush his bicep, and the scent of coconut shampoo and lavender laundry detergent hit him before he looked up. It was Lila, his new next-door neighbor, the one who ran the mobile golden retriever grooming van that rumbled down his dirt road at 7 a.m. every weekday, the one he’d only ever waved at from the garage while he sanded his 1972 F100. She had a smudge of chili powder high on her left cheek, her dark curly hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she was holding two small paper sample cups in one hand, a sweating can of hard seltzer in the other. “You look like you’d rather be getting a root canal than talking to Mrs. Henderson about her prize marigolds,” she said, grinning, her green eyes crinkling at the corners, flecks of gold catching the afternoon sun. He grunted in agreement, and she laughed, a bright, throaty sound that made the back of his neck warm. She held out one of the sample cups. “Taste my chili. Everyone here’s giving me grief for making it vegan, says it’s not ‘real’ chili unless it has three types of pork in it.”
Jax’s first instinct was to say no. He’d spent 40 years turning his nose up at anything labeled vegan, figured it was all overpriced grass and bean slop for city people who didn’t know what actual food tasted like. But she was leaning in a little closer now, her elbow resting on the trailer rail right next to his, the heat from her arm seeping through the thin flannel of his shirt, and he found himself reaching for the cup. Their fingers brushed when he took it, her skin cold from holding the seltzer can, and he felt a little jolt shoot up his arm, the kind he hadn’t felt since he was 16 and his high school girlfriend held his hand for the first time at the drive-in. He took a sip, braced himself for bland, mushy garbage, and blinked in surprise. It was good. Spicy, with a hint of smoked paprika and a touch of maple syrup that cut the heat, thick enough to stick to the spoon. “Well?” she said, tilting her head, her smirk teasing, like she already knew he liked it.
“Not as bad as I thought it’d be,” he said, taking another sip, and she laughed again, punching his arm lightly, her knuckles calloused from clipping dog nails for 12 years, he later learned. She told him she’d moved to the area from Asheville after her divorce, wanted a slower pace, more space for her three rescue dogs, no nosy family asking when she’d get remarried. No one asked him about his wife the whole time they talked. No one gave him that pitying look. She complained about the guy who ran the feed store charging her 10 bucks extra for dog food, he complained about the county potholes that were messing up his truck’s new suspension, and for the first time in three years, he forgot to feel guilty for enjoying talking to someone who wasn’t his old lineman buddies.
The fire department siren blared suddenly, making them both jump, and someone yelled over the speaker that they were announcing the contest winners. Lila grabbed his wrist without thinking, her palm warm now, calluses rough against his skin, and tugged him toward the announcement stage. “C’mon, I wanna see if my stupid vegan chili beat Hank’s pork and bourbon abomination,” she said, and he let her pull him, didn’t even think about pulling away. When they announced her chili had won runner up in the overall category, she cheered so loud a kid next to them jumped, and she threw her arms around his neck before she could stop herself. He froze for half a second, then rested one hand on her back, could feel the warmth of her body through her hoodie, the soft curls of her hair brushing his cheek, and he didn’t want her to let go.
She pulled back a minute later, a little pink in the cheeks, like she was embarrassed, but she didn’t let go of his wrist. The crowd dispersed, people carrying their crockpots back to their trucks, the sun dipping low below the tree line, painting the sky pink and orange. “I got a bottle of 12-year bourbon on my kitchen counter,” she said, biting her lower lip a little, not quite meeting his eyes for the first time all afternoon. “No questions about past stuff, no pity, just bourbon and leftover chili. You wanna come over?”
He looked at the small, chipped ceramic trophy she was holding in her other hand, the chili powder still smudged on her cheek, the way her thumb was rubbing soft, slow circles on the inside of his wrist, and nodded. They walked across the gravel parking lot together, their boots crunching over fallen oak leaves, and when she laced her fingers through his, he squeezed back.
