Dale Riggs, 58, retired high-voltage lineman, leans his hip against a splintered pine picnic table at the East Knox County fire department chili cookoff, scuffed work boots planted in crumbly red clay. He’s got a bowl of 3-alarm from the Station 2 booth—no beans, just meat, chili powder, and a hit of bourbon the fire chief swears is a “secret ingredient” everyone knows about—and a cold PBR sweating through the paper coaster under it. It’s mid-October, the air sharp enough to make his old shoulder ache from a 2018 pole fall, and the hum of small-town chatter mixes with the crackle of cast-iron pots on propane burners.
He’s halfway through his chili when a kid darting past with a neon blue snow cone slams into the side of the table, and a soft, warm shoulder slams into his bicep right after. He turns, and there’s Lila Marlow, Carol’s younger cousin, the woman he’s spent 20 years actively avoiding because he’d had a stupid, loud crush on her the day he married Carol, and he’d always thought even looking at her too long was a betrayal. She’s 42 now, just moved back to town last month to open a plant shop on Main Street, her dark hair streaked with a single streak of silver at the temple, wearing a worn black leather jacket and jeans cuffed over scuffed hiking boots. She grabs his forearm to steady herself, her palm warm through the thin flannel of his shirt, and holds eye contact for three full beats longer than casual, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Dale Riggs. I’d know that no-bean chili order anywhere,” she says, sliding onto the bench next to him without asking, her knee pressing against his where the table leg forces them close. He freezes for half a second, the old guilt coiling in his gut right next to a stupid, giddy thrill he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager. He’d told himself for decades that wanting her was wrong, gross even, that he owed Carol better than to even entertain the thought. But Lila doesn’t give him time to overthink it, passing him a crumpled napkin when a drop of chili oil dribbles down his wrist, her knuckles brushing his skin soft as dandelion fluff. She talks about the plant shop, about how Carol used to send her care packages of Dale’s homemade beef jerky when she was living in Portland, about how she’d always thought it was dumb that he never let himself take a break after Carol got sick.
The sun dips below the treeline as they talk, the crowd thinning out, tiki torches sputtering to life around the fairgrounds. Their knees keep brushing when someone jostles the table, and he catches himself watching the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she laughs, the faint scar on her left cheek from a 2003 family picnic ATV crash he’d helped patch her up after. He can smell jasmine and cinnamon on her when she leans in to tell him a story about the time she snuck a six-pack of his beer out of his garage when she was 19, and his throat goes dry. He should leave, he tells himself. People are already staring, the small town rumor mill will be spinning by morning, it’s wrong. But he doesn’t move.
When the last of the chili booths pack up, she tilts her head at the trailhead at the edge of the fairgrounds, the same dirt path that leads to the creek they used to hike for family cookouts. “Wanna walk? I haven’t seen the old footbridge since I was a kid,” she says. He hesitates for ten full seconds, the guilt warring so loud in his head he can barely hear the crickets chirping. Then he nods, grabbing his half-empty beer off the table.
The leaves crunch under their boots as they walk, the air cold enough that their breath puffs white in front of them. She stops when they hit the footbridge, leaning against the weathered wooden rail, and turns to him, the faint orange glow of the distant tiki torches catching the silver in her hair. “I had a crush on you that entire 2003 picnic, you know,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear. “Never said anything. I respected Carol too much. Respected you too much. But I’m tired of pretending I don’t see how hard you’ve been punishing yourself for just existing after she was gone.”
His chest feels tight, like someone’s sitting on it. He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just reaches out, brushing a crumpled oak leaf out of her hair, his calloused lineman’s knuckles grazing her cheek. She leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering shut for half a second, and the last of the guilt melts right out of him. He’d spent so long thinking wanting anything for himself was a betrayal, he’d forgotten Carol had spent the last six months of her life telling him to stop being an idiot and live a little once she was gone.
He wraps both of his hands around hers, her fingers cold from the October air, and rubs them between his palms to warm them up. They stand there for a minute, no words needed, the sound of the creek gurgling below them mixing with the distant sound of a country song playing from a pickup truck radio in the fairground parking lot. He starts walking back toward the parking lot, still holding her hand, slow, no rush, and when she squeezes his fingers, he squeezes back. A wind picks up, carrying the faint smell of chili powder and jasmine, and he tugs her a little closer to his side so she’s out of the chill.
