Rafe Marquez, 57, makes his living carving custom fly rod handles from reclaimed Appalachian walnut and wrapping guides with thread thin as spider silk. He’s got a scar snaking up his left forearm from a table saw accident 10 years back, a habit of leaving half-empty PBR cans on his workbench until they go flat, and a 12-year rule: no messing with anyone connected to his ex-wife. He’d only come to the town’s annual fall chili cookoff because his neighbor begged him to enter his venison chili, and he’d planned to slip out 20 minutes after dropping off his crockpot, but the beer tent line was longer than expected. Now he’s leaning against the bed of his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150, picking at a bowl of his own chili, ignoring calls from old high school buddies to join their picnic table.
The air smells like smoked paprika, burnt hot dogs, and pine blowing off the mountains behind the fairground. A bluegrass trio plays on the small stage off to the side, the fiddle player sawing so hard his face is bright red. Rafe is just about to dump his half-eaten bowl and head for the truck door when a woman steps up next to him, close enough that her flannel sleeve brushes his bicep when she reaches for the napkin dispenser bolted to his truck bed. He glances over, and for a second he doesn’t place her: wavy chestnut hair streaked with a single strand of silver at the temple, jeans that fit just right, scuffed work boots caked with mud from the new housing development on the edge of town. She grins, and he recognizes the dimple in her left cheek immediately. It’s Lila, his ex-wife’s youngest cousin. The last time he saw her, she was 20, wearing a neon pink bridesmaid dress at his wedding, sneaking sips of his beer when his ex wasn’t looking.
“You still make that chili with the secret shot of bourbon?” she asks, nodding at his bowl before he can even say hello. Her voice is lower than he remembers, rough like she smokes a pack a day, which she probably does. He hesitates, then holds the bowl out. She takes it, her fingers brushing his when she grabs the plastic spoon, warm, calloused, like she works with her hands too. She takes a bite, closes her eyes, hums loud enough that he can hear it over the fiddle. “Fuck, that’s even better than I remembered. I moved back last week, bought that old cabin off Mill Creek Road. Been asking around who sells good venison, turns out I didn’t have to look far.” Rafe’s chest feels tight. He knows what people will say if they see them talking. His ex still lives three streets over from his workshop, runs the local bakery, still tells anyone who’ll listen that Rafe is a stubborn, emotionally closed off asshole. She’s not wrong, but that doesn’t mean he wants her starting rumors about him hooking up with her cousin.
He should make an excuse. Say he’s got to get back to the workshop, that he has a rod due for a guide in Gatlinburg by the end of the week. But he doesn’t. He asks her what she’s doing back in town, and she says she got divorced, quit her job as a park ranger in Utah, got sick of dealing with tourist kids falling off cliffs. They talk for 20 minutes, leaning against his truck, and when she stumbles over a half-buried root stepping away to grab two fresh beers from the cooler by the tailgate, she grabs his forearm to steady herself, her hand lingering on his table saw scar for three full seconds before she pulls away. He doesn’t flinch. The sun dips below the mountains, painting the sky pink and orange, string lights strung between oaks flicker on, gilding the edges of her hair. She leans in a little closer, so he can smell vanilla in her perfume and beer on her breath, and says, “I bought a custom fly rod off some guy online three months ago, before I knew I was moving back. The signature on the handle is R.M. That you, right?”
Rafe nods. He remembers that rod. The client had asked for a handle carved with small trout patterns, had paid him double to rush it. He’d wondered who it was for, had even spent a few extra hours sanding the handle smoother than he usually did. “I need help hanging it over my fireplace,” she says, tilting her head, her eyes glinting. “The walls are all solid oak, I don’t have the right drill bit. I’ve got a bottle of good bourbon at the cabin. We can crack it open after. No pressure.” The thought crosses his mind that everyone at the cookoff is already staring. He can see his old high school football coach nudging his buddy, nodding at them from across the picnic area. He can practically hear his ex’s screech when she finds out. But he’s spent 12 years saying no to everything that isn’t work or fishing or a quiet night alone on his couch. He’s tired of it.
He tells her he’ll follow her to the cabin. She grins, that same dimple popping in her cheek, and hands him one of the cold beers she grabbed. He takes it, his fingers brushing hers again, this time on purpose. She tosses her empty napkin in the trash by his truck, winks, and walks back to her beat-up Subaru parked two rows over. Rafe finishes his beer, tosses the can in the bed of his truck, and ignores the hoots from the guys at the picnic table when he climbs into his driver’s seat. The drive to her cabin is 10 minutes up a winding dirt road, dust kicking up behind her Subaru, the moon bright enough that he doesn’t even need to turn on his high beams. When she pulls into the gravel driveway, she waves at him from her car window before hopping out. He grabs his work vest off the passenger seat, already thinking about the brass bracket he has in the back that’ll hold her rod straight, and steps out into the pine-scented dark.
