Maceo Rourke, 59, retired smokejumper turned wildfire forensics consultant, stood at the edge of the town chili cookoff judge’s table, left knee throbbing so bad he was half tempted to prop it on the nearest folding chair. Widowed eight years, he’d avoided most community events until the local fire chief strong-armed him into judging this year, citing his “legendary tolerance for spicy garbage” and the fact that he’d eaten freeze-dried rations for three weeks straight during the 2021 Cascadia complex fire, so nothing the town cooks threw at him could phase him. The air reeked of cumin, charred mesquite, and pine off the nearby national forest, sweat sticking the collar of his worn flannel to his neck. He shifted his weight to take pressure off the knee, boot catching on a loose cinder block under the table, and would’ve face planted straight into a platter of cornbread if a cool, firm hand hadn’t wrapped around his forearm just above the faded scar from a 2017 jump injury.
He looked down, and his throat went dry. It was Lena Marquez, ex-wife of his old jump crew partner Jax, who’d left her three years prior for a 28-year-old backcountry ranger in Idaho. Maceo had spent twelve years actively avoiding looking at her for too long, adhering to a bro code so old it might as well have been carved into the side of his old jump helmet, even after Jax bailed on the crew and stopped answering any of their texts. Her fingers still curled around his arm, he could smell lavender and beeswax lip balm on her skin, hazel eyes flecked with gold crinkling at the corners as she smirked. “Easy there, hot shot. Don’t go down before you taste my hatch green chili entry. I’ve been bragging to the girls I’d beat all the old smokejumper hacks this year.”
He mumbled a thanks, pulling his arm back slow, like he was scared any sudden movement would break whatever fragile unspoken rule was hanging between them. He ended up sitting next to her at the picnic table after that, their knees brushing every time one of them shifted to reach for a water bottle or a new sample of chili. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky pink and orange over the mountains, and she leaned in to point at a guy in a neon chili pepper costume tripping over a hay bale, her shoulder pressing firm against his, cedar perfume curling into his nose. He’d spent so long forcing himself to feel guilty for even thinking about her, the line between disgust at himself for breaking bro code and the warm, sharp pull of desire had blurred so much he could barely tell them apart.
She brought up the hardware store run he’d made the week prior, when he’d tried to haul a 50-pound bag of concrete mix for his porch by himself, limping so bad the cashier had offered to call him a ride. He got defensive immediately, stubbornness flaring, the same flaw that had made him refuse to call for backup during a 2019 fire and end up with three cracked ribs. “I had it handled,” he grumbled, picking at a loose splinter on the picnic table. She laughed, a low, warm sound that made his chest feel light, and knocked her knee against his on purpose this time. “Sure you did. I was parked two spots over, watched you stop three times to catch your breath. You don’t have to do everything alone, you know.”
By the time the awards were announced, he’d forgotten all about the knee pain, all about the bro code, all about the guilt he’d carried for years for even noticing her. She won first place, he took second for his smoked brisket chili, and they ended up leaning against the bed of his beat up 2008 Ford F150 in the parking lot, her blue ribbon twisted in his calloused fingers. She stepped closer, so close he could feel her breath on his jaw, and said, “Jax hasn’t been my problem for three years. And I know you’ve been avoiding me this whole time like I’ve got cooties.” He didn’t have a good retort, so he just leaned down and kissed her, slow, like he was scared she’d pull away. She tasted like lime seltzer and the cinnamon she’d sprinkled on her chili samples, her hand coming up to curl in the graying hair at the nape of his neck, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel like he had to be the tough, unbreakable smokejumper everyone expected.
He asked her if she wanted to come back to his place, told her he had a bottle of 10-year-old bourbon stashed under his kitchen sink, promised he’d let her help him carry that concrete bag the next day if she stayed. She grinned, climbing into the passenger seat without hesitation, and said “Only if you let me add my hatch chili to your brisket recipe next year.” He slammed the driver’s side door, turned the key in the ignition, and Merle Haggard’s “That’s the Way Love Goes” crackled over the old radio. He reached over, laced his calloused fingers through hers, and pulled out of the parking lot, no more unwritten rules weighing him down.
