Manny Rocha, 51, makes his living sanding rust out of vintage campers and rewiring 50-year-old electrical systems out of a barn 12 miles outside Smithville, Texas. He’s avoided every small town community event for eight straight years, ever since his wife packed a duffel and left in the middle of the night, no note, no follow up call. His big flaw? He’s convinced himself solitude is a superpower, that letting anyone get close enough to see the chinks in his gruff, calloused exterior is just asking for another kick to the chest. He only agreed to enter the annual town chili cookoff because his 16-year-old niece, who’s been spending weekends apprenticing in his shop, begged him, said his brisket chili was too good to keep locked up on his property.
He showed up an hour early, hauled his cast iron Dutch oven and folding table to the spot assigned to him, right next to the new elementary school librarian’s booth. He’d heard the rumors about her: Clara Bennett, 48, moved to town three months prior from Chicago, left a tenured position after an affair with a married school board member blew up her life. The town’s been side-eyeing her ever since, treating her like she’s contagious. Manny told himself right then he’d keep his head down, not say more than two words to her, avoid the drama like the plague.
He didn’t mean to talk to her after that, but when he leaned over to grab a stack of paper plates off the end of her table, his shoulder brushed hers, and she commented on the faded 1972 Airstream Sovereign sticker on the back of his work flannel. He told her he’s been restoring that same Airstream in the back of his barn for three years, the one he’d planned to take cross country with his ex before she left, and she didn’t do that awkward sympathetic nod most people do when he mentions the divorce. She just nodded, said she’s been looking for a small vintage camper to fix up herself, wants to take it out to state parks on weekends when the kids are with her ex-husband.
A group of kids ran by chasing a golden retriever an hour later, one of them slamming into the back of Clara’s table hard enough to knock her full glass of sweet tea straight into Manny’s lap. The cold liquid seeped through his worn denim jeans fast, and he yelped, jumping up. She grabbed a handful of paper napkins immediately, leaning in to dab at the wet spot on his thigh, her palm pressing against his leg for a beat longer than necessary, and he could feel the heat of her hand through the damp fabric. He froze, every alarm in his head blaring that he was getting too close, that this was the kind of thing he’d spent eight years avoiding, but he didn’t step away.
He tasted her chili right before the judges came around, offered a bite in exchange for a bite of his, and it was perfect: deep, rich, with a hint of cocoa and a slow burn of chipotle, exactly how he’d made it back when he still cooked for two. The judges announced the awards an hour later: she took first place, he took second, and they stood side by side holding their cheap plastic trophies while the crowd clapped, Manny acutely aware of how her elbow brushed his every time she shifted her weight.
The sun was dipping below the tree line by the time they were packing up their booths, a light drizzle starting to fall, spotting the gravel under their boots. Most of the crowd had left already, only a few stragglers lingering by the taco truck across the field, and Manny was just about to climb into his beat up Ford F-150 when she stepped in front of him, tilting her head up to look him in the eye. She didn’t say anything for a second, just held his gaze, the silver hoop in her left nostril glinting in the glow of the parking lot string lights, and then she leaned up and kissed him.
He hesitated for half a second, every part of him screaming to pull away, to go back to his barn and his campers and his quiet, safe solitude. Then he kissed her back, one hand coming up to cradle the side of her face, not caring that the two town gossips lingering by the taco truck were definitely staring, not caring about the rumors, not caring that he’d spent eight years building a wall between himself and anyone who could hurt him.
When they pulled apart, she was grinning, her red lipstick smudged a little at the corner of her mouth. He fumbled in his pocket for a pen, scribbled his cell number on the back of his crumpled chili cookoff entry form, and held it out to her. She took it, tucked it into the front of her bra, and winked, before turning to walk to her own SUV parked a few spots down. He stood there in the drizzle, watching her go, the taste of her cherry lip balm still on his lips, already planning to move the half-restored 1968 Scotty camper to the front of his shop first thing tomorrow morning.
