Rudy Koenig, 61, retired woodshop teacher from Peters Township, had only showed up to the fire department chili cookoff because his 12-year-old grandson had begged him to enter the brisket chili he’d spent 12 hours smoking the night before. He leaned against a dented folding table near the back of the hall, scowling into his half-empty Yuengling, the toes of his scuffed work boots scuffing at a crack in the linoleum. The air reeked of chili powder, charred hot dog buns, and the sweet, fermented tang of spiked apple cider, and the tinny speakers above the bar blared Alan Jackson deep cuts loud enough to make his fillings rattle. He’d planned to stay exactly long enough to collect his guaranteed second place prize (he knew the fire chief hated smoked meat, so first was going to the chief’s sister-in-law’s boring, plain beef and bean entry) and bolt back to his garage where the only company he had to deal with was his pile of rough-cut oak and his old hound dog Mabel.
A shoulder brushed his bicep, soft and warm through the thin flannel of his shirt, and the sharp, bright scent of jasmine cut through the heavy chili fumes. He turned, ready to snap at whoever had bumped him, and froze. It was Lila Marlow, Karen’s second cousin’s daughter, the girl who’d babysat his two kids when she was 14 and he’d been still teaching full time, who’d brought him homemade chicken noodle soup when he’d sliced off the tip of his thumb on the table saw back in 2017. She was 42 now, her auburn hair streaked with thin lines of silver at the temples, pulled back in a messy braid, freckles dusting her nose and the slope of her neck that he’d never noticed before. She wore a faded Steelers hoodie tied around her waist, the knees of her cargo pants caked with mud, work boots scuffed from the landscaping jobs she’d been doing since she moved back to town after her divorce six months prior.
“Thought that was you,” she said, grinning, her teeth white against her sun-darkened skin. She reached for a sample cup of chili on the table in front of him at the same time he did, their fingers brushing for half a second, her palm calloused and warm from hauling pavers and digging flower beds. He pulled his hand back like he’d touched the hot barrel of a nail gun, his ears burning. He’d avoided every event he thought she’d be at for the last three months, angry at himself for the stupid, fluttery tightness in his chest when he saw her Instagram posts of her hiking in the state park, when he heard his sister mention she’d asked about him at the grocery store. It felt wrong, dirty almost, to look at a girl he’d known since she was 12 and notice how the collar of her t-shirt gaped a little when she laughed, how the muscles in her forearms flexed when she picked up the sample cup.
He mumbled a greeting, staring at the scuff on his boot like it held the secrets of the universe, and took a long sip of his beer. She didn’t leave, leaned against the table next to him, their elbows almost touching, and told him about the native wildflower garden she was planting at the elementary school, how the principal kept trying to make her add hybrid roses that would die off as soon as the first zone 5 frost hit. He found himself talking back, telling her about the oak Adirondack chairs he was building for the school’s holiday silent auction, and before he knew it an hour had passed, the cookoff awards were over, he’d gotten his expected second place plaque, and the hall was starting to empty out.
She asked him to walk her to her truck, parked at the far end of the gravel lot where the streetlights didn’t reach, and he nodded before he could think better of it. The air was cold enough to make his nose run, the ground crunched with fallen maple leaves under their boots, the distant sound of a freight train horn blaring down the Monongahela valley. When they got to her beat-up Ford Ranger, she leaned against the driver’s side door, looking up at him, the faint glow from the distant hall lights catching the silver streaks in her hair.
“I had a crush on you when I was 16,” she said, no preamble, no awkward laugh, just steady eye contact that made his throat go dry. “Used to make up excuses to stop by your house when Karen was home, just to see you in the garage working on stuff. Thought I was being so subtle.”
He stared at her, stunned, the second place plaque heavy in his hand. He’d spent months feeling like a creep for even noticing she was a grown woman, like he was betraying Karen somehow, like everyone in town would whisper about him if they knew what he was thinking. But she was looking at him like she wasn’t joking, like she actually wanted him, and the stupid, tight feeling in his chest loosened a little. He reached out, brushed a crumb of chili off the corner of her mouth, his thumb lingering on her soft skin for a beat longer than he needed to.
She smiled, reached up, laced her fingers through his, her calloused palm fitting perfectly against his, the missing tip of his thumb pressing into the soft space between her first and second knuckle. They made plans to go hiking at Raccoon Creek State Park the next Saturday, to bring deli sandwiches and stop at the overlook halfway up the trail to watch the sunset. He walked back to his own truck, the cold air stinging his cheeks, the plaque tucked under his other arm, Mabel snoring loud enough to hear through the closed passenger window. He unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, and let the truck’s warm heater blow directly on his cold, tangled fingers.
