Rafe Mendez, 53, has spent the last seven years restoring vintage motorcycles out of a cinder block garage in west Asheville, and the last seven years avoiding anything that feels like a new connection. His ex-wife remarried four years back, but he still keeps a crumpled photo of their 2002 cross-country bike trip tucked in his wallet, still turns down every set-up his sister begs him to go on, still tells himself he’s better off alone with his wrenches and his old Merle Haggard records. He only entered the neighborhood chili cook-off because his regular customer, a 22-year-old kid who works at the coffee shop down the street, dared him to, said his abuela’s chipotle chili could beat the church ladies’ bland tomato slop by a mile.
He’s wiping a smudge of chili grease off the cuff of his faded Sturgis hoodie when she walks up, six inches from his folding table, so close he can smell cinnamon and cedar shampoo over the smoky scent of slow-cooked meat. She’s the new neighbor who moved into the blue bungalow three doors down three weeks prior; he’s only waved at her through the fence when she’s hauling moving boxes, never spoken a full sentence. She’s wearing a faded Pearl Jam flannel tied around her waist, scuffed work boots, a tiny tattoo of a 1970s Honda peeking out from the cuff of her jeans. “Heard this is the only booth here that doesn’t taste like canned kidney beans and regret,” she says, grinning, and Rafe snorts before he can stop himself.
He hands her a sample cup, and when she takes it, their fingers brush for half a second. He feels the rough callus on her index finger, same as the one he has from holding a 10mm wrench eight hours a day, the jolt all the way up his arm, heat crawling up the back of his neck, and he immediately tells himself he’s being an idiot. He’s 53, for Christ’s sake, he doesn’t get flustered over a random hand touch. She takes a bite, coughs, eyes watering, and laughs so hard she snorts a little. “Jesus, that’s hot enough to melt the gasket off my old CB750,” she says, and he hands her a cup of sweet tea, his hands only a little unsteady.
They talk for 40 minutes, while the line for his booth dies down, while the church ladies give them side-eye from their table across the lawn. He learns her name is Lena, she’s a travel nurse who just finished a three-month stint in Florida, she bought the bungalow because she’s tired of moving every few months, that CB750 has been sitting in her garage since she bought it two years back, she can’t get the carburetor adjusted right no matter how many YouTube tutorials she watches. He finds himself leaning against the table, closer to her than he’s been to anyone who isn’t a customer in years, noticing the freckles across her nose, the way she tucks a strand of curly brown hair behind her ear when she’s thinking, the scar on her left wrist from a bike crash when she was 22.
Part of him wants to shut the conversation down, walk back to his shop, lock the door, go back to pretending he doesn’t want anything that isn’t grease and old metal. He feels guilty, like he’s betraying the 22 years he had with his ex, like he’s being stupid for thinking a woman that sharp, that funny, would want anything to do with a grumpy old guy who still sleeps in the same t-shirt he wore on his wedding day. But when she asks if he’d be willing to come look at her bike sometime, offers to pay him in homemade tamales and cold beer, he doesn’t say no.
The cook-off wraps up as the first light drizzle of the evening starts to fall. He packs up his crockpot and his folding table, offers to walk her home, since her place is on his way back to his. They walk side by side down the sidewalk, their shoulders brushing every few steps, the rain starting to spot the sleeves of his hoodie. When they get to her front porch, she stops, leans against the railing, and grins up at him. “7 a.m. tomorrow work for you? I’ll have the tamales ready before you even get your tool belt off,” she says.
He nods, and when she leans in to hug him goodbye, he tenses for half a second, his hands hovering awkwardly over her back, before he relaxes, lets his palm rest light against her shoulder. Her hair is damp from the rain, smells like that same cedar and cinnamon, and for the first time in seven years, he doesn’t feel the sharp twist of guilt in his chest when he thinks about how much he likes being this close to someone. He pulls away, says he’ll see her tomorrow, turns and walks down the porch steps.
He gets back to his small cottage, pulls his wallet out of his pocket, tosses the crumpled photo of his ex-wife in the trash can by the front door. He pours himself a glass of bourbon, sits down on his porch step, and watches the rain fall soft over the neighborhood, already counting the hours until 7 a.m.
