Javier Mendez, 53, has restored vintage neon signs out of a repurposed 1950s gas station in central Ohio for eight years, and he’s avoided the town’s annual chili cookoff every single one of those years until now. He only showed up because his shop sponsored the first place trophy, and the event coordinator badgered him for three weeks straight until he caved. He’s leaning against the bed of his dented 2002 Silverado, picking at a bowl of brisket chili he grabbed from the closest booth, when a shadow falls over his paper plate.
Clara Bennett, the new town librarian, is standing two feet away, holding a half-empty bowl of the same chili, a smudge of red sauce on the corner of her mouth. He’s seen her exactly three times before: once when she dropped off a stack of old neon sign reference books at his shop, once at the grocery store when she was buying a case of IPA and a frozen pizza, and once at the gas station when she filled up her beat-up Subaru. Everyone in town talks about her like she’s made of porcelain: runs the children’s story hour every Saturday, volunteers at the church food bank, never stays out past 8 p.m. He’d always thought the gossip was overblown, but he never had a reason to test it.
She steps a little closer, boots crunching on the gravel lot, and a breeze carries the scent of lavender lotion and cigarette smoke over to him, a surprise he doesn’t bother hiding his reaction to. “You’re the neon guy, right?” she says, and her voice is lower than he remembers, rougher around the edges, like she laughs a lot when no one’s watching. He nods, and she gestures to the chili on his sleeve, the spot he didn’t notice he spilled five minutes earlier. “You got a little….” She reaches out before he can respond, dabbing at the flannel with a crumpled napkin, her knuckles brushing the hair on his forearm, warm even through the fabric.
He tenses up at first, half convinced this is a prank the high school kids talked her into, half convinced the whole town is watching them from the cookoff booths 50 feet away. But she doesn’t pull away, just keeps dabbing until the stain is mostly gone, then leans back, grinning, like she can read the panic on his face. “Relax. I’m not gonna bite. I heard you make the best green chili west of the Mississippi. Was gonna ask if you’d bring a batch to the library’s fall potluck next month.”
He snorts, leaning back against the truck, crossing his arms over his chest. “You listen to too much town gossip. My green chili’s so hot it’d send all the story hour kids running for the water fountain.” She laughs, loud and unapologetic, and he notices the tiny book tattoo peeking out from under the cuff of her cardigan, the flecks of gold in her brown eyes that he never saw from across the grocery store. She steps even closer, close enough that he can feel the heat off her shoulder, and she nods at the empty passenger seat of his truck.
“Wanna get out of here?” she says, nodding up the road toward the old abandoned drive-in theater, the one with the cracked neon marquee he’s been meaning to restore for two years. “I heard the sunset up there is insane. And I won’t make you talk about the potluck if you don’t want to.”
He hesitates for half a second, thinking about the gossip that’ll spread through town by tomorrow morning, thinking about how he’s spent eight years avoiding exactly this kind of attention, thinking about how he hasn’t even kissed anyone since his ex-wife left. But then she tilts her head, grinning, and he can still feel the ghost of her knuckles on his forearm, and he nods, tossing his empty chili bowl in the trash can next to the truck.
They don’t talk much on the drive up. The radio is playing old Johnny Cash, low, and their hands brush when he reaches to turn the volume up, her palm soft against his calloused, neon-stained fingers. She doesn’t pull away. He can feel the heat of her leg against his on the bench seat, and he keeps his eyes on the road, trying not to grin like a teenager on his first date.
They park at the top of the hill, climb onto the tailgate, and watch the sun dip below the cornfields, painting the sky pink and orange and deep purple. She leans her shoulder against his after a few minutes, warm and solid, and he hesitates for a second before wrapping his arm around her waist. She doesn’t flinch, just leans in closer, resting her head on his shoulder.
When the sun is almost gone, she tilts her head up and kisses him, tastes like cherry soda and chili spice, and he kisses her back, slow, like he’s got all the time in the world. They stay there until the first stars come out, until the crickets are chirping loud in the grass at the edge of the lot, until he can’t feel the cold wind on his face anymore.
He drives her back to her small cottage on the edge of town, walks her up the porch steps. She turns to him, holding her keys in one hand, and grins, nodding at the door. “Wanna come in for coffee? I’ve got that good dark roast you like. Saw you buy it at the grocery store once.”
He nods, his throat a little tight, like he’s still half convinced this is a dream. He follows her up the creaky porch steps, his neon-stained work boots scuffing the faded welcome mat, and doesn’t even glance over his shoulder to see if any of the neighbors are watching.
