Javi Mendez, 53, makes his living restoring vintage travel trailers out of a cinder block shop on his three-acre plot outside Hood River, Oregon. He’s the kind of guy who keeps his schedule so tight he can tell you what he’ll be eating for lunch next Tuesday, hasn’t gone on a date since his wife packed her bags and moved to Costa Rica seven years prior, and still sleeps on the same lumpy twin mattress he bought in college. His biggest flaw? He’d rather spend three nights troubleshooting a rusted Airstream water line than admit he’s lonely. He only agreed to enter the local fire department’s annual chili cookoff because his buddy, the fire chief, threatened to stop referring clients who needed trailer work if he bailed again.
He’s leaning against a picnic table sipping a lukewarm Pabst, crockpot of green chili simmering at his feet, when he spots her. Clara, the woman who bought the old farmhouse three miles down his road three months prior, the one he’s only ever waved at from the cab of his beat-up Ford F-150, the one he’s gone out of his way to avoid running into at the grocery store because he’s convinced he’d fumble his words so bad she’d laugh him off. She’s wearing worn work boots, high-waisted jeans, a flannel tied around her waist, and there’s a faint smudge of flour on her left cheek, leftover from the peach cobbler she entered in the dessert contest, he guesses. He snaps his head away fast, staring down at the scuff on his boot, hoping she didn’t catch him staring.
She walks over anyway, grinning, and holds out a hand. Her palm is calloused, he notices, when he shakes it. She says she’s been meaning to track him down, her well pump died two days prior, she saw the logo on his truck for his restoration business, figured he’d know a good plumber. He stammers for a second, says he doesn’t need to call a plumber, he’s got a brand new pump in his shop, he can swing by tomorrow morning and install it for free, no hassle. She leans in a little then, her shoulder brushing his bicep when she reaches past him to grab a corn chip off the paper plate on the table next to him, and the smell of lavender shampoo and pine smoke hits him, sharp and warm, and he freezes. He hasn’t been that close to a woman he’s attracted to in almost a decade, and half his brain is screaming to make an excuse, grab his chili, and go home to his hound dog and the western he had queued up on TV, and the other half is leaning in too, wanting to smell her hair again.
They talk for 20 minutes, easy, no awkward silences. She teases him about the permanent grease smudge under his left fingernail, he teases her about the flour on her cheek, and she swats his forearm lightly, her hand lingering on the frayed fabric of his Carhartt jacket for half a beat too long. A group of kids chasing a golden retriever barrels between them, and she steps closer to get out of the way, her chest brushing his arm, and he can feel the heat of her through two layers of fabric, his ears going pink. He’s spent years building walls around his quiet little life, convinced any disruption would end in the same kind of mess his marriage did, but right now, those walls feel flimsy, like one good gust of wind would knock them right over.
The emcee gets on the mic to announce the chili winners, and Javi’s name gets called for second place, prize a $50 gift card to the local feed store and an oversized fire department hoodie. She cheers louder than anyone else around them, grabs his hand to yank him up to the stage, her fingers laced through his, calloused and warm, and he doesn’t pull away. By the time they walk back to his picnic table, the sun’s dipping below the Columbia River, string lights strung across the pavilion are glowing gold, and the air’s got that crisp fall bite that makes your nose run a little. She stops, tilts her head up at him, and says she doesn’t feel like going back to her empty farmhouse tonight, asks if he wants to bring his leftover chili over, she’s got a bottle of reposado tequila she’s been saving for a good enough reason.
He hesitates for exactly two seconds, the voice in the back of his head warning him he’s going to get his heart broken again, before he nods, grinning. He grabs the crockpot of leftover chili, slings the strap over his shoulder, his hound dog trotting at his heels, and they turn down the dirt road that leads to her house. Her hand brushes his every three or four steps, and after a minute, she laces their fingers together again, slow, like she’s giving him time to pull away if he wants. He doesn’t. He squeezes her hand a little tighter, and when she glances up at him, she’s smiling, the flour smudge still faint on her cheek, and he can’t remember the last time he felt this light.
