Rafe Mendez, 59, spent 22 years as a smokejumper before trading parachutes and fire hoses for spreadsheets and wildfire mitigation plans for small Oregon mountain towns. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he’d spent the 12 years since his ex-wife moved to Portland intentionally walling himself off from anyone who might want more than a 30-second chat about pine beetle infestations or backcountry trail conditions. He’d convinced himself any close connection would end the same way his marriage did: with someone getting fed up with his long work trips, his habit of shutting down when asked how he was feeling, his refusal to let anyone see the parts of him still scarred from the fires he’d fought, both literal and metaphorical. He showed up to the annual VFD chili cookoff only to drop off a $500 donation he’d promised the fire chief, work boots crunching over frost-dusted gravel, the smell of charred meat, cinnamon, and pine smoke wrapping around him before he even stepped through the fairground gates. He planned to be gone in 10 minutes, tops.
He didn’t count on slamming straight into Clara Walker as he rounded the corner of the beer tent. She’d moved into the cottage three properties down from his three months prior, ran the tiny used bookstore on Main Street, and he’d gone out of his way to avoid any interaction longer than a half-hearted wave when he was out cutting firewood or hauling mulch for his oak trees. The stack of paper chili scorecards she was holding went flying, her shoulder hitting his chest hard enough that he grunted, his hand flying out to steady her by the elbow. Her sweater was soft, cashmere, the color of burnt amber, and her perfume smelled like vanilla and old paper when she leaned in close to say sorry over the roar of the bluegrass band playing by the picnic tables, their fiddle sawing loud enough to make his teeth rattle a little. He could see flecks of gold in her hazel eyes when she looked up at him, her dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a messy braid, a smudge of chili powder on her left cheekbone that made him want to reach out and brush it off before he could stop himself.
He helped her pick up the scorecards, their hands brushing twice when they both reached for the same crumpled sheet at the same time, the contact sending a tiny jolt up his arm that he tried to ignore. He’d meant to mumble a goodbye and head for his truck after that, but she asked if he’d tried her green chile pork entry yet, nodding toward the folding table where crockpots were lined up under a canvas awning, steam curling up to fog the plastic lids. He wanted to say no, that he had to get home to finish a report for the county, but the way she was smiling, one eyebrow cocked like she knew he was lying about having somewhere urgent to be, made him stay.
They stood shoulder to shoulder by her crockpot, close enough that their arms brushed every time one of them shifted. The wind picked up, cold enough that he could see his breath puff out in little white clouds, and she leaned in closer when she told him she’d adapted the recipe from her abuela, who’d run a diner in Santa Fe for 40 years. He could feel the heat of her body through his thick flannel shirt when she pressed up against his side for a second to let a group of kids carrying paper cups of root beer run past, yelling loud enough to cut through the band for a split second. She held eye contact for three full beats when he told her about his smokejumping days, the scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his jawline from a falling tree branch mid-fire, and he felt the back of his neck go warm, a sensation he’d all but forgotten existed. He spent 20 minutes fighting the urge to reach out and brush the chili powder off her cheek, disgusted with himself for even caring, for letting a stranger crack the wall he’d spent over a decade building so carefully, so intentionally, to keep himself from getting hurt again.
The turning point hit when she dipped a wooden spoon into her crockpot, blew on it for two seconds to cool it down, and held it up to his mouth. He hesitated for half a second, every alarm bell in his head screaming to turn and run, but he leaned in anyway, the taste of green chile, garlic, slow-cooked pork, and a hint of lime bursting across his tongue, the steam from the spoon fogging his wire-rimmed glasses for a second. When he pulled back, she was grinning, and he realized he was grinning too, something he hadn’t done without forcing it in longer than he could remember. The fight between his desire to run back to his empty house, lock the door, and hide behind his spreadsheets for the rest of the weekend, and the desire to stay here with her, faded fast, the latter winning out so easily he almost laughed out loud at how stupid he’d been for all those years.
He didn’t offer to drive her home, not yet. He asked if she wanted to walk down to the little coffee shop on Main, the one that stayed open late on weekends and roasted their own beans in-house, to try their new honey cinnamon lattes he’d heard people talking about at the hardware store. She said yes, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow as they walked out of the fairgrounds, the cold air stinging their cheeks, the sound of the bluegrass band fading behind them. Halfway down the block, their hands brushed as they walked, and he laced his fingers through hers, his calloused from years of handling axes and parachute cords, hers soft from decades of turning book pages. She squeezed his hand once, gentle, and he didn’t pull away.
