Elio Mendez, 51, retired smokejumper turned wildfire mitigation consultant, only dragged himself to the Ada County fire district’s annual chili cookoff because his old jump partner had threatened to post his 2018 post-jump mullet photo all over local Facebook groups if he bailed. He’d spent the last three hours hovering by the cinder block picnic table holding his crockpot of hatch green chili, half-empty Pabst in his free hand, dodging small talk with neighbors he’d lived next to for four years and still couldn’t name. The scar snaking up his left forearm itched under the thin cotton of his work shirt, a leftover from the 2013 Salmon-Challis National Forest blaze that ended his jumping career, and he kept rubbing at it unconsciously, the raised, ridged skin rough under his calloused fingertips. The air smelled like burnt charcoal, cumin, and the faint sharp tang of pine coming off the foothills as the sun dipped pink below the ridgeline, crickets starting to chirp in the tall grass at the edge of the park.
He was half considering bailing early when Lila walked up, the new next door neighbor he’d only exchanged half a dozen fence waves with since she moved in three months prior. She ran a mobile large animal vet clinic, her beat-up white truck covered in horse and cow stickers always parked in her driveway when he got home from site visits, a shaggy border collie named Mabel usually curled up on the passenger seat. Mabel was at her heels now, nose nudging Elio’s boot, and Lila laughed when he bent down to scratch her behind the ears, the sound warm and rough, like she spent half her day yelling over spooked cattle. “I’ve been meaning to bring over sourdough I bake on Sundays,” she said, leaning in a little so he could hear her over the classic rock blaring from the portable speaker by the grill, her shoulder brushing his bicep when a group of firefighters walked past behind her. “Kept getting called out for emergency colic calls at the horse farms out east, kept forgetting.”
She held out a paper plate for a chili sample, and when he reached for the ladle, her knuckles brushed the scar on his forearm. He flinched first, old instinct kicking in—most people pulled away when they felt the rough, uneven skin, made awkward comments about how bad that must have hurt. But she didn’t pull her hand away for a beat, her gaze flicking down to the scar then back up to his face, no pity in her eyes, just curiosity. “Hatch?” she asked, nodding at the chili after she took a bite, leaning against the picnic table next to him, her knee brushing his every time someone walked past. She didn’t make a big deal out of the scar, didn’t ask questions, just hummed when he said he drove down to New Mexico every August to load up on a crate of the chiles, roasted them himself in his backyard fire pit over a weekend.
Elio had spent the seven years since his ex-wife left convincing himself he liked being alone, that dating was a hassle for guys his age, that no one wanted to put up with the nights he woke up sweating smelling smoke, the way he still tensed up every time he heard a fire siren. He felt that familiar twist of disgust in his gut at the flutter of excitement he felt when she laughed at his dumb joke about the fire department’s red chili tasting like wet cardboard soaked in paprika, told himself she was just being polite, that he was reading too much into the way she kept leaning in, the way her eyes didn’t dart away when he talked about the fire that ended his career.
By 9 p.m. the crowd had thinned out, the string lights strung between the oak trees glowing gold, the air cooling enough that Elio could feel the chill through his shirt. Lila was standing so close he could smell the lavender in her shampoo mixed with the faint, earthy smell of horse she could never fully wash off her clothes, and when she reached up to brush a fleck of chili off his jaw, her thumb lingered on his skin for a split second longer than necessary. He didn’t overthink it, didn’t spend 20 minutes talking himself out of it like he usually would. “Got a bottle of mezcal I brought back from that New Mexico trip,” he said, nodding in the direction of their street, two blocks over. “Pairs pretty good with leftover chili, if you don’t have plans tonight.”
She didn’t hesitate, just grinned, whistling for Mabel to follow as he packed the leftover chili into his cooler. They walked slow down the dark residential street, no streetlights, just the glow of the moon over the foothills, Mabel trotting between them, her hand brushing his every few steps. When they got to his porch, he fumbled in his jeans pocket for his keys, and before he could get the lock turned, she laced her fingers through his scarred left hand, warm and solid, no hesitation at all.
