Manny Marquez, 53, makes his living restoring vintage travel trailers for clients across the Southwest, and he’d spent the last three years in his off-grid plot outside Flagstaff avoiding every community event his neighbors begged him to attend. He hated small talk, hated performative niceties, and he’d built his business enough he didn’t have to schmooze to get work. His only real flaw, if you asked his only local friend Ray, was that he’d shut himself off from any kind of casual fun after his ex-wife left him for a travel blogger eight years prior, convinced any new connection would end in more hassle than it was worth. He only agreed to the town chili cook-off because Ray owed him a free transmission for his 1987 Ford F-150, and the entry fee came with unlimited craft beer from the local brewery.
He nodded, fumbling the ladle a little when her elbow knocked his bicep as she reached for a cup. He watched her take a bite, her eyes widening, and she held eye contact for three full beats longer than polite before she swallowed, wiping a smudge of chili grease off her lower lip with her thumb. “Holy shit, that’s better than the stuff they serve at that fancy barbecue place in Sedona. I’m Clara. Just moved into the blue farmhouse three parcels down from you.”
Manny’s throat went dry. He knew who Clara was. She was married to Jake Hale, the county supervisor candidate who’d dropped off a 1967 Airstream Sovereign at his shop two weeks prior, handed him a $14,000 deposit to have it restored for their supposed 15th anniversary. He’d seen their wedding photo on Jake’s desk when he dropped off the contract. He took a step back, putting a foot of space between them, already mentally running through how he could get out of the conversation without being rude. Messing with a client’s wife was the fastest way to tank his reputation in a town this small, and word traveled faster than wildfire in the ponderosa pines.
She must have noticed the shift, because she laughed, low and warm, leaning in again to close the gap he’d made, her fingers brushing his flannel shirt as she wiped a fleck of chili off his chest, her touch lingering for a beat longer than necessary. “Relax. We’ve been separated six months. He just hasn’t told anyone because he thinks a divorce will tank his election. He’s been screwing his campaign manager for a year, for Christ’s sake. I signed off on the Airstream contract before we split. It’s yours, no strings, even if we’re caught talking.”
Manny’s shoulders relaxed a little. He could feel the heat of her hand through the thin cotton of his shirt, hear the faint twang of the guitar player in the background, taste the bitter hop residue of his beer on his tongue. He’d spent so long avoiding any kind of risk, any hint of trouble, that the thrill of this—leaning against a fence at a dumb chili cook-off, talking to a woman who looked at him like she knew exactly what she wanted, who didn’t care who saw—was enough to make his pulse pick up.
She nodded toward the dirt trail leading away from the fairgrounds, lined with sagebrush and pine. “Wanna walk? I’m sick of everyone at this thing asking me how Jake’s campaign is going. I’d rather hear about how you turn rusted old trailers into something people want to live in.”
He hesitated for half a second, glancing over at the cluster of local business owners he recognized, including Jake’s campaign treasurer, standing by the beer tent. Then he nodded, setting his half-empty beer down on the fence post, following her down the trail. The gravel crunched under their boots, and the noise of the cook-off faded fast, replaced by the sound of crickets chirping and the wind rustling through the pine needles. They stopped under a massive ponderosa 10 minutes later, and she turned to him, leaning up to kiss him before he could say anything. She tasted like peach iced tea and chili spice, her hands tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, her palms calloused the same way his were—she told him between kisses she ran a small glassblowing studio out of her garage, had burned herself more times than she could count.
He pulled back for a second, still half convinced he was going to wake up in his workshop alone, covered in rust dust, the whole thing a daydream. But she was real, her arms looped around his neck, grinning like she knew exactly what he was thinking. “You overthinking this?” she asked, and he nodded, and she laughed, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. “Don’t. Jake doesn’t care. The only people who would care are the same ones who think Jake’s a saint, and they can get over it.”
They walked back to his truck 20 minutes later, his hand brushing the small of her back whenever they stepped over a root in the trail. He dropped her off at her car, told her he was done with the Airstream he’d been restoring for himself, a 1972 Overlander, had it parked behind his house with a porch swing strung between two pines next to it. “Wanna come over Saturday? I’ll make more of that chili. We can test out the heater in the trailer, if it gets cold.”
She leaned in through the open truck window, kissing him one more time, her fingers brushing the scar on his left cheek he’d gotten fighting a wildfire outside Taos 12 years prior. “I’ll bring the peach iced tea. And some of the glass tumblers I made. Don’t burn the chili.” He watched her drive away, her pickup truck kicking up a cloud of red dust, before he turned the key in his ignition, the radio playing an old George Strait track he hadn’t heard in years.
