Rafe Mendez only showed up to the Bozeman west side block party because his 12-year-old granddaughter had begged him for three weeks straight to enter the rib cookoff. At 58, three years retired from a 32-year career as a wildland hotshot crew lead, he’d gotten used to hiding out in his garage fixing vintage Fords, avoiding small talk with neighbors who always wanted to ask about the scar slashing across his left cheek or when he’d finally “get back out there” after his wife’s death. He’d taken third place, his ribs slathered in the chipotle rub he’d perfected over 20 years of campfire cooking, and was now leaning against a splintered pine picnic table, holding a lukewarm PBR and a half-eaten paper plate of leftover meat, watching kids bounce on an inflatable castle that reeked of plastic and sweat.
Rafe snorted, took a sip of his beer. He knew exactly how relentless Carol was. She’d cornered him at the hardware store two months prior, trying to set him up with her younger sister who collected porcelain clowns and listened exclusively to Barry Manilow. He’d lied and said he was leaving town for a month to fight fires in Oregon just to get away. Lila leaned against the picnic table next to him, close enough that he could smell coconut shampoo and the cherry lollipop she’d popped into her mouth after she righted herself, her elbow brushing his bicep every time she gestured at a kid zooming past on a bike. He’d seen her around for six months, the new county librarian, had exchanged half a dozen waves with her when she drove past his property on her way up the mountain to the rural book drop, but they’d never talked for more than 10 seconds before.
The whole town had been whispering about her marriage for months. Everyone knew her husband had been cheating on her with a waitress out in Williston, that he’d called her two weeks prior to say he was extending his contract another year, no explanation, no plan to visit. Rafe’s chest tightened a little when she mentioned it offhand, rolling her eyes like it didn’t sting, and he fought the urge to reach out and pat her shoulder. He’d made a rule three years ago: no getting involved, no messy feelings, no betraying the memory of the woman he’d loved since he was 19. But Lila was leaning in now, her dark brown eyes locked on his, and he realized she wasn’t just making small talk. She kept glancing at his mouth when he talked about his trucks, her tongue darting out to wet her lips every time he laughed, and the air between them felt thick, heavy enough to cut with a pocket knife.
She mentioned her 2005 F150 had been sputtering up the mountain road for two weeks, that every mechanic in town had quoted her an outrageous price to fix it, and she’d heard he did good work for half what the shops charged. He told her he could swing by her place the next afternoon after he dropped off a truck he’d finished for a guy in Livingston. She smiled, bright, and reached out to brush a stray pine needle off his collar, her fingers lingering on the skin of his neck for half a second too long, calloused from turning pages all day, warm. The shock of it went straight down his spine, a jolt he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager sneaking his girlfriend into the back of his dad’s pickup. She handed him a crumpled slip of receipt paper with her cell number scrawled on it in blue ink, told him she’d make chili rellenos for dinner after he finished the truck, the recipe her abuela had taught her when she was 10.
He hesitated for half a second, thinking of Carol, who was definitely watching them from across the park, her mouth twisted like she was already drafting the gossip she’d spread at the grocery store the next morning. He thought of his wife, of the rule he’d carved into his head after her funeral, of the way he’d told himself he’d never be the kind of guy who got mixed up in someone else’s messy marriage. But then Lila winked, popped her lollipop back into her mouth, and said don’t be late, before turning to walk toward the cotton candy stand, her dress swishing around her legs as she went.
He stayed there for another 45 minutes, talking to a couple old hotshot buddies who’d showed up with their own kids, his fingers brushing the crumpled receipt in his flannel pocket every few minutes like he was checking it was real. His granddaughter came over eventually, tugging his hand, saying her mom was ready to take her home. He walked her to his daughter’s SUV, waved as they pulled out of the parking lot, and then pulled the receipt out of his pocket, staring at the smudged numbers for a full minute before he typed them into his phone.
