Rafe Marquez, 53, retired hotshot crew supervisor, leaned against a splintered pine picnic table at the Deschutes County volunteer fire chili cookoff, his left knee throbbing so bad he had to shift his weight every 30 seconds. He’d had the replacement two years prior, but he still lied to everyone who asked, said it was good as new, hated the idea of anyone seeing him as less than the guy who’d hauled 60 pound packs up 7000 foot slopes for 22 straight years. The paper bowl in his hand held chili with too much cumin, not enough heat, and a suspiciously large chunk of raw onion, made by a 22 year old rookie who’d joined the local crew six months back, and Rafe didn’t have the heart to tell him it sucked.
The bluegrass band on the makeshift stage cranked up a fiddle cover of a Johnny Cash song, loud enough that he had to squint to make out the words, when he felt a soft brush against his right bicep. He turned, and there was Lila Carter, Joe’s widow, holding a dented plastic pitcher of sweet tea, her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, a smudge of chili powder on her left cheek. They’d known each other 18 years, ever since Joe brought her to his first crew holiday party, and Rafe had spent every one of those years deliberately not noticing the way her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, the way she always remembered he took his coffee black no sugar, the split second of eye contact they’d shared at Joe’s funeral six months prior, when she’d squeezed his hand so hard her nails dug into his palm, no one else watching.
She leaned in to talk, her shoulder pressing against his arm now, the wool of her cream sweater soft against the worn flannel he wore, and she smelled like cedar and vanilla, the same perfume she’d worn the day he helped her and Joe fix their split rail fence three years back. “That kid’s chili is gonna give half the crowd heartburn,” she said, her mouth close enough to his ear that her breath warmed the side of his neck, and he had to fight not to shiver. He nodded, took a deliberately slow sip of the chili to buy time, his throat tight. He’d avoided her for six months, told himself it was out of respect for Joe, that making a move would be the lowest thing a friend could do, even as he’d found himself driving past her little Main Street bookstore three times a week, just to see if her beat-up Subaru was parked out front.
She nodded at his knee, like she’d noticed him shifting his weight, and touched his wrist lightly, her fingers warm through the flannel. “You wanna walk down to the river? Quieter there. Your leg looks like it’s killing you.” He hesitated, the guilt coiling tight in his chest, then nodded. He tossed the half-eaten bowl of chili in the trash next to the table, and followed her down the dirt path lined with pine saplings, her scuffed work boots kicking up small clouds of red dust, the sound of the band fading the farther they got from the fairgrounds.
They walked for five minutes before he had to stop, a sharp jolt of pain shooting up his leg, and she immediately gestured to a fallen ponderosa log half-buried in moss at the edge of the river. He sat, sighed, rubbed at his knee through his worn jeans, and she sat down next to him, their thighs pressed together from hip to knee, no space between them. The river rushed past, low and soft, the air crisp enough that he could see his breath when he exhaled, and she reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a pack of spearmint gum, offered him one. He took it, his fingers brushing hers, and she didn’t pull away.
“Joe told me,” she said, quiet, like she was scared the pine trees would hear, “that if anything ever happened to him, you were the only person he trusted to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid like try to fix the roof myself or give all our savings to that weird animal rescue that tries to adopt out skunks.” Rafe laughed, short and surprised, and she turned to face him, her knee knocking against his, her eyes bright. “He also teased me for years about how I’d make way too many tamales every time you came over for dinner. Said I was worse than a teenager with a crush.”
The guilt in his chest loosened, just a little, and he leaned in, not even thinking about it, his hand coming up to brush the smudge of chili powder off her cheek. She didn’t flinch, just leaned into his touch, and then she was kissing him, slow, her hand on the back of his neck, her lips soft, tasting like cinnamon gum and sweet tea. He kissed her back, his hand resting on her waist, the throb in his knee fading to background noise, the sound of the river drowning out every other overthinking thought in his head.
They sat there for an hour, trading old crew stories about Joe’s terrible campfire cooking and the time he accidentally dyed his hair neon pink on a fire assignment, talking about the new mystery section she was adding to her bookstore, her hand laced in his, his calloused fingers tangled with her softer ones, the sun dipping below the pine trees, painting the sky streaks of pink and tangerine. When the first crickets started chirping, she stood, pulled him up gently so he wouldn’t jostle his knee, and asked him if he wanted to come back to her place for peach pie, the kind Joe always said was the best thing he ever tasted. He said yes immediately, no hesitation, no lingering guilt, no overthinking. He tucked a strand of wind-tousled hair that had fallen loose from her braid behind her ear, and for the first time since he retired, he didn’t feel like he was waiting for the next bad thing to hit.
