Javi Mendez, 53, makes his living restoring vintage travel trailers out of a converted barn on 3 acres of scrubby Hill Country land outside Wimberley, Texas. He moved there seven years prior, after his wife left him for a craft brewery owner in Denver, and has deliberately kept his head down ever since, avoiding small town gossip like he avoids rust spots on 1960s Airstream paneling. His biggest flaw is that he’ll walk three blocks out of his way to avoid an awkward conversation, a habit that’s kept him lonely but largely drama-free, up until the annual town chili cookoff.
The October air bit at the tip of his nose as he sat at the judge’s table, denim work shirt still dotted with sawdust from the barn that morning, a paper plate stacked with half-eaten chili samples in front of him. He’d gotten roped into judging after the old feed store owner broke his ankle falling off a ladder, and he’d agreed mostly to avoid a fight with the town’s event coordinator, who’d cornered him at the grocery store two weeks prior. The air smelled like smoked brisket, cumin, and burnt mesquite, the crowd yelling over a crackling PA system playing 90s country.
He was wiping a smudge of chili grease off his calloused thumb when she walked over, holding a paper basket with two cornbread muffins wrapped in wax paper. Lena Hale, 41, the mayor’s wife. He’d nodded at her a handful of times in the produce aisle, always looked away fast, mostly because her husband had denied his zoning permit application to expand his shop back in July, claiming it would “disrupt the residential character” of his road, even though his nearest neighbor was three acres away. She was wearing a faded Texas Longhorns hoodie, flannel tied around her waist, scuffed cowboy boots caked in mud from the field parking lot, a streak of chili powder smudged across her left cheek.
“Figured you’d be sick of chili by now,” she said, holding out one of the muffins. Her fingers brushed the back of his hand when he took it, her skin soft but with a tiny, familiar callus on her index finger, the kind you get from pruning rose bushes for hours. She held his eye contact for three full beats, longer than strictly polite, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth when she noticed him staring at the chili powder on her cheek.
She sat down next to him on the folding chair, so close their knees pressed together under the table, the worn fabric of her jeans warm against his leg. He tensed up immediately, glancing across the square to where her husband was talking to the sheriff, beer in hand, red face shiny from the heat of the chili cookers. He told himself he should stand up, make an excuse, leave. He didn’t need the drama, didn’t need the mayor holding that permit over his head forever, didn’t need the whole town whispering about him behind his back.
“Your permit’s getting approved tomorrow,” she said, like she could read his mind. She leaned in a little, her shoulder brushing his, the smell of vanilla lotion and campfire smoke mixing with the cumin hanging in the air. “Hal’s been being an ass about it, not personal. I told him if he didn’t sign off on it, I’d skip all his campaign fundraisers next quarter.”
Javi blinked, not sure what to say. He could feel the heat of her leg through his jeans, could hear the smile in her voice even when he wasn’t looking at her, could hear the crowd yelling as someone won the prize for spiciest chili. He’d spent seven years deliberately keeping everyone at arm’s length, had convinced himself he liked the quiet, liked being alone, liked not having to answer to anyone. But right then, sitting next to her, he didn’t want to move.
The PA system cut to George Strait’s “Amarillo by Morning” a second later, and she grabbed his hand, her palm warm against his, calluses catching on the rough skin of his knuckles. “C’mon,” she said, pulling him up before he could protest. “I’ve been wanting to dance with you since I saw you sanding that Airstream in your front yard back in June.”
He hesitated for half a second, glancing over at the mayor, who was already staring at them, jaw tight. Then he let her lead him to the patch of dirt that passed for a dance floor, his hand settling light on her waist when she pulled him close. She leaned in, her hair brushing his jaw, soft, smelling like lavender, her breath warm against his ear when she spoke. “I’m leaving Hal next month,” she whispered. “I’m tired of going to fundraisers and pretending I care about his stupid re-election campaign. I want to go see the Grand Canyon. I want to sleep in a trailer under the stars instead of a 4,000 square foot house that feels like a museum.”
His grip on her waist tightened, and he pulled her just a little closer, not caring who was watching, not caring about the gossip, not caring about anything except the way she fit against him, like she belonged there. The song ended a minute later, and she squeezed his hand, gave him a tiny, secret smile, before walking back over to her husband, not looking over her shoulder again.
He left the cookoff ten minutes later, drove back to his property, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and checked his email on a whim. The zoning permit approval was sitting in his inbox, sent from the mayor’s official address, a typed note at the bottom, with a handwritten line scrawled in pink ink below it: Bring that Airstream to the north lake access road at 7pm Friday. I’ll bring the chili.
He pulled out his phone, typed a quick reply: I’ll bring extra cornbread. His thumb hovered over the send button for half a second, then he tapped it, set his phone on the counter, and walked out to the barn to polish the Airstream’s chrome bumper, the cool October air on his face, a grin he couldn’t wipe off tugging at his mouth.
