Leo Marquez, 58, had spent the last seven years avoiding small town social events like they carried a contagious strain of flu. The vintage camper restoration specialist only showed up to the Estes Park fire department chili cook-off because the fire chief, his former high school football teammate, had shown up at his pole barn two days prior, holding a case of his favorite hazy IPA, and refused to leave until Leo agreed to attend. He’d stood by the back of the picnic area for 45 minutes, nursing a bowl of over-spiced venison chili, planning his escape route, when she walked over.
She was his new neighbor, the one who’d moved into the run-down log cabin three miles down his dirt road three months prior. He’d waved at her twice from his beat-up F-250, once when she was hauling a rotting deck post out of her yard, once when she was walking her fluffy golden retriever at 5:30 a.m. after he’d finished a late restoration job. He’d never spoken to her, didn’t even know her name until she slid onto the wooden bench next to him, close enough that her denim-clad knee pressed lightly against the outer seam of his work jeans, and held out a hand. “Clara Bennett. I recognized your truck from the sticker on the back window. The one that says ‘This Machine Tows Old Campers.’ I’ve got a 1972 Scotty Sportsman parked behind my cabin that’s leaking water like a sieve, and I have zero clue how to fix it.”
Her voice was low, rough around the edges like she spent most of her days talking over loud machinery, and when she smiled, there was a tiny scar at the corner of her left lip that crinkled when she laughed. He could smell cedar shampoo and peppermint gum on her, underneath the faint, briny scent of the chili she was holding. He fumbled for a second before shaking her hand, his calloused, epoxy-stained fingers wrapping around hers, and was surprised at how warm her skin was. He’d forgotten what it felt like to touch someone who wasn’t his coonhound Gus, or a customer who only wanted to talk about invoice dates and delivery timelines.
They talked for 20 minutes, the roar of the crowd and the classic rock playing over the speakers fading into background noise. She was a traveling ICU nurse, had moved to Colorado after her sister got a job at the hospital in Fort Collins, was tired of living out of hotel rooms between shifts. She teased him about the dried epoxy flecked in his graying beard, asked him if he really did camp out in the Airstream he lived in, or if he just kept it as a showpiece for customers. He found himself telling her about his wife, Lena, how they’d bought the first Airstream he restored for their 15th anniversary, how he’d started the business after she died to keep himself busy. He didn’t mention the nights he’d sat alone in the Airstream drinking too much whiskey, or how he’d turned down three different women from town who’d asked him out in the last two years, because the thought of being with anyone else had made his skin crawl.
When she reached across the table to wipe a glob of chili off his chin with a crumpled napkin, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw, he felt a jolt shoot up his spine that he hadn’t felt since he was 17 and Lena had kissed him for the first time behind the high school gym. He tensed up for half a second, ready to pull away, but she didn’t push, just grinned and went back to eating her chili, like she hadn’t just short-circuited half his brain.
The fire chief got on the mic a few minutes later to announce the 50/50 raffle winner. Leo had stuffed a $10 bill into the raffle jar when he walked in, had forgotten about it entirely until the chief called the last four digits of his ticket number, then Clara’s, right after. They’d bought tickets one after the other, had split the $840 pot evenly, $420 apiece. She whooped, grabbing his bicep and leaning in so close her lips were almost brushing his ear, the heat of her breath fanning over his neck. “Hey, you wanna put our winnings toward parts for my Scotty? I’ll buy you dinner at that BBQ place on Main Street afterward, plus a whole case of that hazy IPA you like. I saw the empty cases stacked by your barn when I walked my dog past last week.”
He hesitated for three full beats, the old familiar tightness in his chest rising up for a second, the voice in his head saying he was betraying Lena, that he didn’t deserve to have fun with anyone else. Then he looked at Clara, her brown eyes bright, her hand still resting light on his arm, and the tightness melted away. He nodded, told her he was free Saturday morning, she could tow the Scotty to his shop any time after 8.
They left the cook-off together, walking slowly across the gravel parking lot, their hands brushing every few steps, no one making a move to pull away. She stopped at her beat-up Subaru Outback, pulled a crumpled grocery receipt out of her jacket pocket, scribbled her cell number on the back in neon pink pen, and pressed it into his palm, her fingers lingering against his for a beat longer than necessary. “Text me later to confirm the time, okay?” she said, grinning, before climbing into her car and shutting the door.
Leo stood there for a minute, holding the crumpled receipt in his hand, watching her taillights fade down the road, the faint scent of cedar shampoo still hanging in the cool mountain air around him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, typed her number into his contacts, and hit send on a text that said 8 a.m. Saturday works. I’ve got extra plumbing parts on hand, so we won’t even have to go to the hardware store first.
