Rico Marquez only showed up to the Dripping Springs Volunteer Fire Department chili cookoff because the chief, Jimmie, had showed up at his garage two days prior with a case of Shiner Bock and a guilt trip about the department raising money for new turnout gear. He’d brought his abuela’s red chili recipe, the one his late wife Elaina used to beg him to make for Super Bowl parties, and planned to slip out before anyone could corner him into small talk. He leaned against a splintered pine picnic table, beer sweating in his grip, his 10-year-old German Shepherd Mabel curled at his boots, and scanned the crowd for the nearest exit.
Then Lila walked up. He knew who she was, of course. Jimmie’s ex-wife, 58, ran the herbal apothecary on Main Street, the one with the hand-painted sign of a lavender sprig above the door. Jimmie had warned him off her three years prior, slurring over a beer at the only bar in town that she was “too much trouble, too sharp, will tear your heart out if you let her.” Rico had avoided her ever since, darting down a different aisle at the grocery store if he saw her silver-streaked auburn hair over the produce bins, pretending he didn’t hear her wave when he drove past her shop.
She was wearing a faded linen button-down unbuttoned at the collar, frayed cutoff shorts, and scuffed white tennis shoes caked in red dirt from her backyard garden. The air shifted when she stopped a foot away from him, carrying the warm, earthy scent of sage and cedar, the same scent that drifted out of her shop when the door opened. “You actually left the garage,” she said, grinning, the corners of her eyes crinkling at the edges, and held eye contact for two beats longer than polite. “I was starting to think you lived under a Jeep.”
Rico grunted, not sure what to say. He’d forgotten how low her voice was, rough around the edges like she spent half her time yelling over wind or loud music. She leaned in, just close enough that her shoulder brushed his bicep, and sniffed the crockpot of chili sitting on the table next to him. “Smells better than any of the burnt garbage the firemen are passing off as food,” she said, and reached for a paper sample cup next to the crock. Her hand brushed his when she grabbed it, and he flinched like he’d been burned, felt the rough callus on her thumb from months of pruning herb stems. She raised an eyebrow, amused, and didn’t pull her hand away for half a second.
The noise of the cookoff faded for a second: the kids screaming on the bounce house, the Alan Jackson song playing low over the portable speakers, the shouts of the guys manning the cornhole boards all went quiet, like someone had turned the volume down on the world. Rico’s throat went dry. He told himself he should leave, that Jimmie would lose his mind if he saw him talking to her, that Elaina would be rolling in her grave if she knew he was even thinking about looking at another woman that way.
“Wanna walk down to the creek behind the station?” Lila asked, tilting her head toward the tree line at the edge of the parking lot. “It’s quiet down there. I won’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.” She winked, and he felt his face heat up, something he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager asking Elaina to prom.
He hesitated for ten full seconds, glancing over at Jimmie who was busy yelling at a guy who’d spilled beer on the chili contest score sheet, then down at Mabel who’d perked up and was wagging her tail at Lila. He nodded.
They walked slow, Mabel trotting ahead of them, sniffing at every oak tree and wildflower patch along the dirt path. The sun filtered through the oak leaves, dappling the ground in gold, and the air smelled like damp dirt and wild mint growing along the creek bank. Lila sat down on a flat limestone rock half-submerged in the shallow, cool water, and patted the spot next to her. Rico sat, their knees pressing together through the thin fabric of their jeans and shorts, and felt the heat of her leg seep through the denim.
“I know Jimmie told you to stay away from me,” she said, picking up a smooth rock and skipping it across the creek. It bounced three times before sinking. “He’s still mad I left him for a woman for six months back in 2020. Thinks I’m some kind of deviant.” She laughed, a low, throaty sound that made Rico’s chest feel tight. “I get it, though. I saw the way you flinch when people get too close. You lost someone, right?”
Rico nodded, staring at the water. Told her about Elaina, about the ovarian cancer that came on fast, about how he’d moved out here because every corner of their old house in El Paso smelled like her, about how he’d spent 8 years convinced he’d never be allowed to be happy again. “I thought even talking to you would be cheating,” he said, quiet, like he was admitting a sin.
Lila turned toward him, her knee pressing harder into his, and brushed a stray piece of gray hair off his forehead. Her fingers lingered on his temple, soft, and he didn’t flinch this time. “Loving someone doesn’t mean you have to stop living when they’re gone,” she said, and he could feel her breath on his cheek, sweet from the peach iced tea she’d been drinking. “She’d want you to smile again, dummy.”
They sat there for an hour, talking about nothing and everything, about her garden, about the vintage CJ Jeeps he fixed up for collectors across the state, about Mabel’s weird obsession with eating acorns. The sun dipped below the tree line, painting the sky pink and orange, when they walked back up to the parking lot. Most of the crowd was gone, Jimmie was passed out in a lawn chair next to a stack of empty beer cases.
Lila stopped next to her beat-up old Subaru pickup, pulled a small glass jar out of her bag, and handed it to him. It was lip balm, labeled with a handwritten sticker that said PEPPERMINT + SAGE. “Your lips are chapped raw from working outside,” she said, leaning in just enough that he could smell her perfume again. “Come by the shop Wednesday around 2. I’ll make you coffee. We can talk about that 1978 CJ7 you’ve been posting about on the town Facebook page.” She grinned, leaned up, and pressed a soft, quick kiss to his cheek.
He tucked the jar into the front pocket of his flannel shirt, watched her climb into her truck and pull out of the parking lot, waving out the window as she turned onto Main Street. Mabel nudged his hand with her cold wet nose, and he looked down at her, then back at the empty road. He twisted the cap off the lip balm, swiped a little across his lips, the peppermint sharp and cool against his skin.
