Rafe Mendez, 53, owns a vintage motorcycle restoration shop on the outskirts of Asheville, North Carolina, and has spent the last 12 years avoiding any event that might put him in the same room as Jake Carter, his ex-wife’s cousin. The grudge started when Jake lowballed him on a lease for a downtown storefront, then spread rumors he cut corners on parts to run him out of the neighborhood, and Rafe has held it tight ever since, turning down every invite to town cookoffs, holiday parades, even the annual shop owners’ association meetings. His 19-year-old apprentice finally badgered him into coming to the fall chili cookoff, saying he’d never get more local work if he kept hiding in his cinder block shop off the highway, so Rafe showed up in his oil-stained Carhartt jacket, beer in hand, planning to stay 45 minutes max.
The air smelled like wood smoke, charred burger patties, and cinnamon-spiked chili, the bluegrass band off by the food tents sawing through a Johnny Cash deep cut Rafe hadn’t heard since he was a kid visiting his grandparents in east Tennessee. He was leaning against a splintered pine picnic table, half ignoring the feed store owner rambling about his old Harley, when she walked over. She carried two paper bowls of chili, flannel shirt unbuttoned at the collar to show a thin silver chain around her neck, flecks of paprika dusted on the inside of her left wrist, work boots caked in mud from the week’s rain. He recognized her as Clara, Jake’s girlfriend of eight months who ran the downtown herbal apothecary, and he tensed up immediately, ready to make an excuse to leave.
She set one of the bowls down on the table in front of him, their fingers brushing when she pushed it across the wood, and Rafe felt the rough callus on her index finger, the kind you get from stirring 10-pound batches of salve every week. “Heard you don’t come to these things,” she said, sliding onto the bench next to him, her knee pressing into his for half a second before she shifted, just enough to leave a half inch of space between them. Her voice was low, a little gravelly, like she smoked half a pack a day and sang along to loud music in her truck on her commute. She held eye contact for two full beats longer than casual, like she knew exactly who he was, exactly why he avoided Jake, and didn’t care.
Rafe’s chest felt tight, equal parts irritation and something warmer he hadn’t felt in years. He knew he should get up, walk away, avoid the drama that would come with talking to Jake’s girlfriend, but the chili smelled good, and she was leaning in to point at the tattoo of a 1972 CB750 engine on his forearm, her shoulder brushing his as she moved. “I have my dad’s old CB750 sitting in my garage,” she said, grinning when he raised an eyebrow. “Been rotting for 12 years. Jake said he’d fix it for me, but I know he doesn’t know a carburetor from a crankshaft. I’ve been meaning to swing by your shop for months, but I didn’t want to show up unannounced when you were busy.”
The bluegrass band switched to a slower song, kids screaming as they chased each other with glow sticks off to the side, and Rafe took a bite of the chili, the heat of the cayenne mixing with a hint of clove that made him blink. He wanted to say no, tell her to ask Jake, keep his vow to stay far away from anything connected to that side of his old life, but he found himself asking what year the bike was, how long it had been since it ran. She laughed when he made a joke about Jake being the kind of guy who uses duct tape to fix a leaking gas line, her hand brushing his arm as she laughed, and Rafe forgot he was supposed to be mad at anyone associated with the guy.
Jake spotted them 10 minutes later, his face going red as he slammed the spatula he was holding down on the grill, and started marching over. Rafe tensed, ready for a fight, but Clara stood up before Jake could open his mouth, placing her hand flat on Rafe’s bicep, her palm warm through the worn cotton of his shirt. “We’re talking about a bike restoration,” she said, sharp enough that Jake stopped in his tracks. “I told you I was going to ask him to do it. You don’t get a say in who I hire for my stuff.” Jake stared for a second, stunned, then mumbled something about needing to flip the burgers and turned on his heel to walk back to the grill.
Clara sat back down, shaking her head, and pulled a crumpled napkin and a pen out of her jeans pocket, pushing them across the table to Rafe. “He’s an idiot, I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I heard the whole story about the lease, by the way. He brags about it when he’s drunk. I thought it was garbage the second I heard it.” Rafe wrote his personal cell number on the napkin, scrawling a note underneath it that said Saturday 9am, I’ll buy the coffee, and handed it back to her. She tucked it into the front pocket of her jeans, then leaned in close enough that he could smell the peppermint lip balm she was wearing, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his cheek before she stood up to head back to the grill.
Rafe leaned back against the picnic table, sipping the last of his beer, watching her walk away, and noticed she slipped the napkin out of her jeans pocket and tucked it into her bra for safekeeping before she grabbed the spatula from Jake. She glanced back at him over her shoulder a second later, winking when she saw he was still watching, and Rafe felt the corner of his mouth tug up into a smile he hadn’t worn since before the divorce.
