Javi Mendez, 52, custom fly rod builder who’d turned a garage side hustle into a six-figure business serving clients across the Rocky Mountain west, had only agreed to show up to the county fire department’s annual chili cookoff because his childhood friend, now a battalion chief, had threatened to drag his shop’s dumpsters into the street if he bailed again. He’d spent the first 45 minutes hovering by the beer tent, work boots crusted with pine sap and epoxy residue, ignoring the familiar faces yelling his name to join their tables. His biggest flaw, as his ex-wife had spelled out in their divorce papers eight years prior, was that he’d rather sand down a graphite rod blank for 12 hours straight than make small talk with people who didn’t care about line weight or mayfly hatches.
He was halfway through his second IPA, picking at a plate of overcooked chili that tasted like canned tomatoes and regret, when a shoulder bumped his arm hard enough to slosh beer down his flannel sleeve. He turned to snap, and froze. It was Lila, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the one who’d been 19 and wearing a neon pink prom dress the last time he’d seen her, hiding in his garage to get away from his ex’s screaming matches at a family barbecue. She was 47 now, silver streaks threaded through her dark curly hair, wearing scuffed work boots and a denim jacket with a pediatric nurse patch sewn on the breast, and she was grinning like she’d just caught him stealing cookies from a jar.
She didn’t seem to pick up on his hesitation, grabbing a piece of cornbread off his plate without asking, her fingers brushing his when she set it back down. She’d moved back to town two weeks prior, she said, left her ER nursing job in Portland after her mom got diagnosed with early onset dementia, was staying in her grandma’s old cabin up the creek, the one he’d fixed the roof on back in 2001. “I still have that peacock feather fly you tied me back then,” she said, and he blinked, because he’d completely forgotten he’d done that. “You said it would catch the biggest rainbow in the creek, and it did. I kept it on my desk at work for 20 years.”
The conflict warred in his chest, hot and sharp—disgust at the idea of crossing that line, of everyone in town whispering about him, of feeling like he was doing something wrong, tangled up with the low, warm thrum of desire he hadn’t felt in years, the kind that makes your palms sweat and your throat go dry. She didn’t pull back when he shifted closer to hear her better, didn’t look away when his eyes dropped to her mouth for half a second, just kept smiling like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
When the fireworks started going off by the fairground entrance, loud enough to make his ears ring, she tilted her head toward the exit. “You got a cooler in that beat up old silver pickup of yours? I saw it parked down the street. Still have the fishing sticker on the back window, right?” He nodded, and they slipped out past the crowd, her hand brushing his wrist every few steps when they had to squeeze past groups of people carrying chili bowls.
They sat on his tailgate, passing a cold bottle of sweet tea back and forth, watching the fireworks paint the sky pink and blue over the pine trees. She leaned into his side when a particularly loud boom went off, her shoulder pressed to his chest, and when she pulled back a second later, she reached up to wipe a smudge of chili off his jaw, her thumb lingering on the rough stubble of his cheek for three full beats. He didn’t pull away.
“Everyone’s gonna talk if they see us together,” he said, quiet enough that only she could hear it, and she laughed, low and warm. “Let em. I’ve had a crush on you since I was 19, Javi. I don’t care what my cousin says, or what anyone in this town thinks. You’re the only good guy that ever showed up for my family when we needed it.”
He sat quiet for a minute, turning that over in his head, the weight of eight years of avoiding people, of feeling like he had to be the bad guy, lifting off his chest so slow he almost didn’t notice it. He reached over, laced his fingers through hers, calloused from tying flies and sanding rod blanks, rough against her knuckles that were scarred from 20 years of starting IVs and lifting patients. She squeezed his hand, and he didn’t let go.
They stayed on the tailgate until the last firework fizzled out, until the crowd started clearing out and the sound of the band faded into the hum of crickets in the trees. He didn’t think about what his ex would say, or what the guys at the fire department would tease him about, or any of the stupid rules he’d made for himself after the divorce. He opened the passenger door for her, waited until she was settled before he climbed into the driver’s seat, and turned the key in the ignition, an old George Strait song cutting on through the truck’s crackling speakers as he pulled out of the parking lot toward her cabin, not looking back.
