Rico Marquez, 52, runs a vintage camper restoration shop out of a converted two-car garage on the edge of Mason, Texas, and hasn’t allowed anyone outside his small circle of regular clients to get close to him since his wife left him for an Austin realtor at a Hill Country camper rally eight years prior. His defining flaw is a stubborn commitment to self-isolation; he deflects every flirty advance from the widows at the local diner with a dry joke about his old hound dog being the only female he can stand to live with, and he bails on every town event as soon as he’s fulfilled whatever obligation brought him there in the first place. The annual October chili cookoff is no exception—he’s only there to drop off the custom wrought iron pot rack he welded for the top prize, and he’s already holding a to-go bowl of venison chili, ready to head for his truck before anyone can rope him into volunteering for the Christmas parade.
He turns too fast to avoid a group of kids chasing each other with water guns, and slams shoulder-first into a woman holding a plastic cup of sweet tea. A dollop of chili slops over the edge of his bowl, splattering the toe of her soft tan suede ankle boot. He’s already reaching for his wallet, ready to offer to pay for a full replacement, when he looks up and meets her eyes. It’s Elara Voss, the 4th grade art teacher who moved to town three months prior, the one every single unmarried man under 60 has been tripping over themselves to ask out, the one he’s deliberately avoided at the hardware store half a dozen times already because he has zero interest in being the latest old guy to make a fool of himself over the new girl in town. She snorts instead of yelling, swats his bicep playfully with the back of her hand, and says it’s fine—she spilled refried beans on the other boot an hour earlier, so now they’re matching.
He doesn’t have his usual deflection joke ready. They stand there as the crowd swirls around them, the air thick with the smell of smoked brisket and chili powder, the low twang of a country cover band drifting from the stage at the end of the square. She asks what he does for work, and when he mentions the camper restoration shop, her face lights up. She says she bought a beat-up 1972 Scotty off Facebook Marketplace two months prior, has been sleeping in it on weekends at the state park, and can’t find anyone who knows how to fix the leaky roof without charging her three times what she paid for the rig. He feels a sharp twist in his chest at the mention of the state park—it’s the same one where his ex left him, the one he hasn’t set foot in since that weekend. He almost makes an excuse about being booked out six months, almost turns and walks to his truck like he planned, but then she leans in to yell over a loud pickup truck passing by the square, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep, and he catches the faint scent of lavender and vanilla mixed with the smoke from the cookoff grills.
The sun dips low below the oak trees by the time the cookoff wraps up, the air sharp enough that he can see his breath when he exhales. She says she’s walking back to her rental house three blocks over, asks if he wants to come take a look at the Scotty, says she’s got a bottle of bourbon stashed under the camper’s sink she’s been saving for someone who actually knows what they’re talking about when it comes to vintage rigs. He hesitates for half a second, already mentally listing all the reasons he should say no—small town gossips will be talking about this for months, he’s got a camper floor to sand first thing in the morning, he doesn’t know how to be around someone new anymore—and then he nods. They walk side by side down the sidewalk, their hands brush twice when they step over a crack in the concrete, the second time he doesn’t pull away.
Her Scotty is parked under a pecan tree in her driveway, strung with battery-powered fairy lights that glow gold against the darkening sky. She pulls out two mason jars, pours two fingers of bourbon each, and they sit on the cinder block step next to the camper’s door, their knees pressed together to stay out of the light breeze. She leans in to tell him a story about a student who painted a portrait of his pet goldfish wearing a cowboy hat for a class project, and her wavy auburn hair brushes his jaw. He doesn’t overthink it, doesn’t talk himself out of it, just lifts his calloused hand and tucks the stray strand of hair behind her ear. She leans into his touch instead of pulling away, her cheek warm against the palm of his hand.
They finish the bourbon, and he stays for the chicken tacos she makes on her tiny portable grill on the porch. When he leaves at 10:30, he has a crumpled list of parts she needs for the Scotty tucked in the pocket of his flannel shirt, and her phone number scribbled on the back of that goldfish cowboy crayon drawing. He climbs into his beat-up Ford F-150, turns the key, and the old Johnny Cash song he’d been listening to on the drive over comes blaring through the speakers. He rests his calloused hand on the steering wheel, taps out the beat of the song with his index finger, and doesn’t even think about turning around to go home to his empty house right away.
