Moe Petrovic, 62, retired U.S. Forest Service fire dispatcher, has lived in the same two-bedroom cabin outside Bend, Oregon, for 31 years. His biggest flaw? He hasn’t made a single unplanned choice since his wife Karen left him in 2001 for a whitewater rafting guide who owned a converted school bus. For the last eight years, he’s run the non-alcoholic drink booth at the town’s annual fall chili cookoff, and he never stays longer than he has to, never chats with anyone beyond taking orders, never deviates from his post. The air that evening smelled like smoked paprika, burnt mesquite, and the sharp, sweet tang of fallen maple leaves crushed under work boots, the string lights strung between the oak trees buzzing soft enough to blend with the country cover band’s twangy set 50 yards away.
The mess started when Lena Marlow bumped into his booth mid-rush, sloshing a full pitcher of spiked hard cider all down the front of his favorite plaid flannel. Lena was Karen’s younger cousin, 58, the town’s new part-time reference librarian, and Moe had avoided her on purpose for 26 years, following the unspoken rule that you don’t fraternize with your ex’s family even if the divorce was amicable enough. He’d only ever seen her in passing at weddings and funerals before she moved back to town three months prior, and Karen had spent most of their marriage talking shit about her, calling her a flighty weirdo who quit jobs on a whim to hike the Appalachian Trail or take glassblowing classes in central Mexico. Moe had always just nodded along, too lazy to argue, too scared of stirring up even the smallest scrap of trouble.
She apologized profusely, dabbing at the wet fabric with a crumpled paper napkin, her knuckles brushing the soft silver hair on his forearm when she leaned in close enough that he could smell cinnamon gum and pine hand soap on her skin. He brushed it off, told her it was just a shirt, tried to go back to pouring lemonade for a group of 10-year-olds with chili-stained cheeks and neon winter hats, but she kept hovering, insisting she make it up to him, holding out a cold IPA she’d swiped from the beer booth as a peace offering. He hesitated, then took it. He didn’t even like IPA that much, but her eyes were hazel, crinkled at the corners like she smiled more often than most people, and her gray hair was pulled back in a messy braid dotted with stray pine needles, and for the first time in years, he didn’t immediately reach for the polite, easy excuse to get away.
They ended up leaning against the side of his booth long after the crowd thinned out, most of the cookoff contestants packing up their dutch ovens and folding tables as the sun dipped below the Cascade foothills, painting the sky streaky pink and burnt orange. She teased him about the giant cider stain spreading across his chest, told him she’d once spilled an entire pot of tomato soup on a first date’s custom leather jacket, and he laughed so hard he snort-laughed, something he hadn’t done since he was in his 30s on a backcountry ski trip with his old crew. She brought him a bowl of her contest entry, a vegan chili with roasted sweet potato and chipotle, and he rolled his eyes at first, told her he only ate chili with beef, but he took a bite anyway, and it was good, spicy enough to make his nose run, warm all the way down to his cold toes tucked into worn work boots.
He kept thinking he should leave, that this was a bad idea, that Karen would lose her mind if she found out he was talking to her cousin, that any kind of connection here would only lead to the kind of unplanned mess he’d spent two decades actively avoiding. But every time he tried to make an excuse to go, she’d say something that made him stay: she remembered he used to man the fire lookout on Broken Top back in the 90s, she’d seen his old polaroids of the view in the town historical society archive, she was driving up there the next morning to take photos of the fall larch trees turning gold, and did he want to come?
He almost said no. Almost told her he had plans, that his bad knee acted up on dirt roads, that he didn’t feel like waking up early. But then she leaned in a little closer, their knees bumping where they sat on the cold metal folding chairs next to the drink cooler, and her hand brushed his when they both reached for a stack of napkins at the same time, her skin warm against his calloused palm, and he found himself saying yes before he could overthink it. She grinned, bright and unapologetic, and reached up to wipe a smudge of chili off his jaw, her thumb brushing his cheek for half a second, so fast he almost thought he imagined it. He didn’t flinch. He never let people touch him unexpectedly these days, but he didn’t even tense up.
They finished their beers as the last of the cookoff volunteers turned off the string lights, the air turning sharp enough that Moe could see his breath fog in front of his face. She told him she’d pick him up at 8 a.m. the next morning, tossed him a bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies as an extra peace offering for the shirt. He walked her to her beat-up 4Runner, the dry leaves crunching under their boots, and when she leaned in to give him a quick, soft kiss on the corner of his mouth before she climbed in, he didn’t step back. He stood in the empty parking lot long after her taillights disappeared around the bend, holding the leftover chili she’d pressed into his hands and the half-eaten cookie in the other, the cider stain on his flannel still cold and damp against his chest. He reached into his coat pocket to pull out his flip phone, deleted the calendar reminder he’d set for tomorrow to sort his old fire crew photos and order his usual frozen pepperoni pizza.
