Javier Mendez, 53, runs a vintage motorcycle restoration shop out of a converted 1940s dairy barn outside Silverton, Oregon, and he holds grudges so long he still gets annoyed when he sees a can of the same sparkling water his ex-wife used to buy. Twelve years prior, at his ex’s 40th birthday party, he’d lost a stupid bet that he could pull a backflip off the lake house dock, ate face-first mud mid-flip, and his ex’s cousin Lena filmed the whole thing, sent it to a 47-person family group chat. He’d refused to speak to her after that, skipped every family holiday for four years straight just to avoid running into her, even when she texted him three separate times to apologize.
He’d moved to the country after the divorce seven years ago, only leaves the barn for parts runs and the annual Silverton Fire Department chili cookoff. This year, the top prize was a NOS 1978 Honda CB750 parts kit he’d been hunting for almost a decade, so he’d entered his award-winning brisket chili, paid the extra entry fee to get a spot near the beer tent, showed up an hour early to set up.
Late September air bit sharp enough to turn the tip of his nose pink, smelled like fallen fir needles, hickory smoke, and the faint, savory tang of 37 different chili recipes simmering in crockpots across the parking lot. Hay bales lined the makeshift seating area, a cover band played 90s country off a rickety wooden stage, kids ran around chasing each other with glow sticks. Javier leaned against the leg of a splintered picnic table, sipping a cold IPA, watching a group of firemen sample his chili and nod approvingly, when he saw her.
Lena was 49 now, silver streaks threading through her thick dark hair cut short at the jaw, wearing a cut-off Silverton FD hoodie that showed off tanned forearms crisscrossed with woodworking scars, work boots caked in sawdust, holding a stack of paper sample cups. He’d heard rumors the new part-time dispatcher was from Portland, but he’d never connected the dots. She walked right up to his crockpot, no hesitation, grinning like she knew exactly how thrown off he was.
“Figured I’d find you here. Everyone says your chili’s the only one worth waiting in line for.” He couldn’t think of a snarky retort fast enough, just nodded, watched her ladle a sample into a cup, blow on it, take a slow sip. She still bit the corner of her lower lip when she was thinking, same as she did when she was 20 and begging him to teach her how to ride a dirt bike. “Tastes as good as the batch you made that weekend we fixed up the old XR600. You still hold that bet against me?”
They talked for 20 minutes, he forgot to even check if people were stopping by his crockpot, she told him she’d moved up six months prior, took the dispatcher job for the flexible hours, did custom woodworking on the side, just finished a set of carved oak handlebar grips for a vintage Harley collector in Portland. He told her about the parts kit he was gunning for, and she laughed, said she’d already voted for his chili when she did the early judge’s pass an hour prior.
The emcee got on the mic then, called his name for first place, and he was so shocked he yanked his arm back too fast, spilling half his IPA down the front of her hoodie. He panicked, grabbed a handful of napkins off the table, started dabbing at the wet spot on her chest before he even thought about how it looked, and she grabbed his wrist, grip firm, laughing so hard she snort. “Relax, Mendez. It’s cotton. I’ve had way worse than cheap IPA spilled on me during overnight dispatch shifts.”
He froze, his hand still half-pressed to her chest, the heat of her skin seeping through the damp fabric, and she didn’t let go of his wrist, just leaned in a little, the smell of her lavender hand lotion mixing with the chili smoke and beer fumes hanging in the air. “I didn’t take this job just for the pension, you know. I asked around first, made sure you were still here.”
All that anger he’d held onto for 12 years felt stupid now, small, like holding a grudge against a rainstorm for getting your boots wet. He smiled, the first real, unforced smile he’d had in months. “You gonna stay for the after party at the bar down the street?” She shook her head, grinning, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I got an early shift tomorrow. But I can meet you at your shop at 10. I got something you’re gonna wanna see.” She handed him a crumpled scrap of receipt paper with her cell number scrawled on it in blue ballpoint, pressed it into his palm, her fingers lingering for a beat longer than necessary.
