Rafe Mendez is 53, spends 40 hours a week patching frayed canvas tent seams, re-seasoning rusted cast iron camp stoves, and rebuilding cracked cooler hinges for his vintage outdoor gear repair shop outside Asheville, North Carolina. His biggest flaw, the one his best buddy Terry rags on him for every Sunday over pancakes, is that he’s held a petty grudge against the town’s annual summer chili cookoff for 12 years, ever since his ex-wife dumped him mid-awards ceremony to run off with a craft beer rep who’d set up a booth next to his station. She moved to Oregon three years back, but Rafe still avoided the cookoff like it gave him hives, until Terry showed up at his cabin at 7 a.m. with a six pack of his favorite IPA and threatened to hide all his custom screwdriver sets if he didn’t enter his prize brisket chili this year.
The fairground reeks of charcoal smoke, sweet peach tea, and burnt hot dogs by the time Rafe hauls his dented stainless steel chili pot to his assigned booth, his hound dog Red trotting at his heels, leash looped around his belt. He’s just setting up his folding table when he catches sight of her, leaning against the judge’s tent, sipping from a mason jar, silver strands catching the sun in her dark wavy hair. He knows who she is: Lena Hart, 49, the new county extension agent, widowed two years, the woman every guy over 40 in town has been gossiping about for six months, the one everyone says is dating the mayor. Rafe tells himself to mind his own business, stirs his chili, ignores the way his chest tightens a little when she looks over and nods at him, a tiny half-smirk playing on her lips.
She ambles over to his booth 20 minutes later, clipboard tucked under one arm, the hem of her denim shorts brushing the grass as she walks. The air shifts when she leans in across the table, close enough that Rafe can smell lavender hand lotion mixed with the faint coconut of her sunscreen, and takes a deep breath in. “Smells way better than the entry three booths down that’s got three whole habaneros floating in it,” she says, reaching for a tiny plastic sample spoon, and her forearm brushes his where he’s resting it on the table edge, warm and solid, for a full two seconds before she pulls away. Rafe’s brain short circuits for half a second, can’t think of anything to say except a gruff thanks, and he almost drops the spoon he’s holding when Red nudges her free hand with his wet nose, begging for a scratch. She laughs, loud and bright, and bends down to rub his ears, and Rafe can’t stop staring at the freckles across her shoulders, the way her t-shirt rides up a little when she leans over.
The internal fight hits him hard after she walks away. He tells himself he’s being an idiot, that she’s off limits, that the last thing he needs is to get wrapped up in small town drama with the mayor’s supposed girlfriend, that he’s better off alone in his cabin with Red and his half-finished restoration projects. But he can’t stop glancing over at the judge’s tent, can’t stop replaying the feel of her arm against his, the sound of her laugh. He’s half convinced he imagined the little extra smile she gave him when she left, until she sends a teenaged volunteer over 10 minutes later with an ice cold mason jar of sweet tea, no ice, exactly how he drinks it, with a sticky note stuck to the side that says nice dog.
They call his name for first place an hour later, the crowd cheering loud enough that Red starts barking, and she’s the one holding the $500 check and the stupid plastic chili pepper trophy when he walks up to the stage. Someone shoves him from behind as he steps up, and he stumbles forward, his hand landing on her waist for half a second, warm through the thin fabric of her t-shirt, and she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, just grins up at him. When she hands him the check, she leans in close enough that her breath brushes his ear, quiet enough that no one else can hear. “I’ve been following your shop’s Instagram for months,” she says. “I have my dad’s old 1972 Coleman cooler in my truck that needs a new hinge and a full reseal. The mayor’s been asking me out for dinner every week for three months and I’ve turned him down every time. I was hoping you’d show up today.”
Rafe can’t think of a single suave thing to say, just nods so hard his baseball cap slips down over his eyes, and the crowd laughs when he fumbles the trophy a little. He helps the volunteers pack up his booth after the ceremony wraps, and she’s leaning against the bed of her beat-up Ford Ranger waiting for him when he’s done, Red trotting over to greet her like they’re old friends. She pulls the dented, faded blue cooler out of her truck bed and hands it to him, their fingers brushing when he takes it, the chipped white paint on the cooler rough under his palm.
He asks her if she wants to come back to his cabin to eat the rest of the chili, says he’s got a bottle of small batch bourbon on the porch that’s been open for a week, no pressure if she doesn’t. She says yes, fast, like she’s been waiting for him to ask, and climbs into the passenger seat of his pickup without hesitation, Red curling up in the back seat behind her. He pulls out of the fairground parking lot, the windows rolled down, the smell of her lavender lotion mixing with the faint smoky scent of leftover chili in the cab, and he doesn’t even think about his ex-wife once the whole drive home.
