Clay Bennett, 58, retired TVA lineman, had not set foot at the county fire department’s annual chili cookoff in 12 years. Not since his ex-wife’s cousin took over organizing the event, not since the divorce, not since he’d decided most small-town gatherings were just excuses for people to stick their noses in your business. He’d only agreed to come that crisp October Saturday because Javi, the 21-year-old kid who mowed his lawn, showed up at his door with a six pack of Pabst and a plea that his mom would kill him if he left Clay cooped up alone watching old SEC reruns for another weekend. Clay’s left knee ached bad that morning, a leftover throb from the utility pole fall that forced his early retirement three years prior, and he’d worn his faded steel-toe work boots and the frayed canvas TVA jacket he’d had since 1992, ready to leave the second he got annoyed.
He was leaning against a splintered wooden post by the beer tent, halfway through his second can, when someone bumped his elbow hard enough to slosh beer down the front of his jeans. He was ready to snap before he looked up. Mara Hale was 54, same crinkly smile he remembered from 1987, when they’d snuck into the local drive-in in his beat-up 1978 Camaro and made out through the whole second half of *Die Hard*. She’d moved to Portland right after high school, and he hadn’t seen her since, not since her dad—his varsity football coach—kicked him off the team for skipping practice to pick up extra shifts at the lumber yard to help his mom pay the rent. He’d sworn back then he’d never talk to a single member of her family ever again, a grudge he’d held tight for 40 years, even when he heard her dad passed a decade prior.
She was wearing a soft linen button-down unbuttoned one notch too low, faded jeans, and scuffed leather work boots, and she smelled like cedar and vanilla candle wax. She apologized profusely, leaning in close enough that her shoulder brushed his bicep to be heard over the bluegrass band’s wailing fiddle, and he found he couldn’t remember why he’d been mad at her for so long. She told him she’d moved back to town six months prior to take care of her mom, who was recovering from a stroke, and that she ran a small pottery business out of her garage, selling mugs and bowls online. When she teased him about the faint scar slicing through his left eyebrow, the one he’d gotten falling off a pole in 2007, she reached up to brush a stray piece of hay off his jacket collar, and her fingers grazed his jaw for half a second. He felt the rough callus on her index finger, the kind you get from throwing clay on a wheel every day, and his throat went dry.
Part of him wanted to turn and walk away, to stick to the stupid rule he’d made as an angry 18-year-old kid, to pretend he didn’t like the way she kept holding eye contact a beat longer than casual friends do, the way she laughed at his dumb joke about the county’s new ban on plastic utensils making every public event feel like a pioneer reenactment. The other part of him, the part that spent most nights alone eating frozen dinners and yelling at cable news, wanted to lean in closer, to see if her lips were still as soft as he remembered.
His ex-wife’s cousin walked over then, grinning, and Clay tensed up, ready for a snarky comment about him finally crawling out of his cave. Before he could open his mouth, Mara slid her hand into the crook of his arm, her palm warm through the thin canvas of his jacket, and told the cousin Clay was her guest, and if he gave him grief she’d hide all the prize-winning chili trophies before the judging. The cousin laughed and walked off, and Clay realized he’d been holding his breath. He didn’t pull his arm away. When he limped a little stepping over a hay bale on their way to the food line, she squeezed his arm gentle, no pity, no comment, just adjusted her pace to match his.
They grabbed a bowl of the three-alarm chili between them, using the rough disposable wooden spoons the event provided, and sat on the tailgate of his beat-up 2006 Ford F150 parked at the edge of the field. He complained that the spoon was going to give him splinters, and she laughed and said she’d throw him a custom ceramic spoon on her wheel the next day if he stopped whining. The sun dipped below the tree line, and the air got cold enough that he could see his breath, and she leaned against his side, her shoulder pressed firm to his, to steal a little warmth. He didn’t move away.
He passed her a cold beer from the cooler behind the seat, and for the first time in 12 years, he didn’t regret leaving the house.
