Leo Marquez, 58, retired O’Hare air traffic controller, leans against a splintered pine picnic table at the county fire department’s annual chili cook-off, dabbing a smudge of venison chili off the knee of his grease-stained Carhartts. He’s got a half-drunk Pabst in a camo koozie in one hand, a third-place ribbon sticking out of his jacket pocket, and he’s just mentally debating bailing early to go home and tweak the carburetor on a 1987 Evinrude he’s been fixing for a neighbor when he sees her.
He freezes mid-sip. It’s Elara, his ex-wife’s younger sister, the woman he’s hated for 22 years because he thought she ratted him out for sneaking off on a walleye fishing trip the day his ex went into false labor. She’s 54 now, her dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, wearing a faded 1997 Fleetwood Mac tour tee and high-waisted jeans that fit like they were made for her, laughing so hard she snorts when a toddler drops a full cup of pink lemonade at her feet. She looks up, meets his eye, and her grin doesn’t falter.
She saunters over, the gravel crunching under her white leather sneakers, and stops so close her shoulder brushes his when she leans in to yell over the Toby Keith track blaring from the fire station’s portable speakers. “I knew that chili was yours the second I tasted it at the judging table. Still use that dark stout and a square of dark chocolate, right?” Leo blinks, his throat going dry. He’d spent two decades imagining their first interaction again would be him telling her to go to hell, not her complimenting his chili. He mumbles a confirmation, and she laughs, the sound warm enough to cut through the crisp October air nipping at his ears.
He’s halfway to asking her what the hell she’s even doing in his small northern Michigan town when she cuts him off, holding up a hand. “Before you start yelling, I never told Mia you left for that fishing trip. She lied. She was already cheating on you with that guy from her office, wanted an excuse to kick you out and not look like the bad guy. I only found out last year at her Christmas party, when she got drunk and admitted it.” Leo’s jaw goes tight. He’d spent 22 years carrying that grudge, cutting off every member of her family, refusing to return calls, skipping every reunion, all over a lie. He’s equal parts furious and hollow, and when he drops his beer koozie, they both bend down to grab it at the same time, their hands brushing. His skin tingles, like he touched a live wire. She smells like coconut sunscreen and cherry hard seltzer, and he can’t stop staring at the smudge of chili on her left jaw.
He should be mad. He should be yelling, or walking away, or driving straight home to drink alone and process the fact he wasted two decades hating the wrong person. But he doesn’t. Instead, he nods his head toward the lake path behind the fire station, and she follows him, the noise of the cook-off fading behind them as they walk past oak trees dropping red and gold leaves onto the dirt path. She tells him she’s in town working a 3-month travel nurse contract at the small local hospital, that she’d begged her roommate who’s a paramedic to bring her to the cook-off because she’d heard the chili was legendary. He tells her about fixing outboard motors, about the 2-bedroom cabin he bought right on the lake, about how he retired early because 30 years of telling planes when to land had turned his blood pressure to static.
They stop at a fallen oak log half-buried in the sand at the shore, and she sits down, patting the spot next to her. He sits, their knees pressing together through two layers of denim, and the contact makes his heart beat faster, like he’s 26 again and seeing her for the first time at his wedding rehearsal dinner, when he’d had to remind himself he was marrying her sister. She admits she always had a crush on him back then, that she never said anything because she didn’t want to hurt Mia, that she’d been hurt when he cut her off without explanation. He admits he’d thought about her more times than he’d ever admit to anyone, even after the divorce, even when he was dating other people. He reaches up, swiping the smudge of chili off her jaw with the pad of his thumb, and she doesn’t pull away, her hand coming to rest on his forearm, her fingers warm through the thin fabric of his flannel shirt.
The sun dips below the lake, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and soft pink, and a loon calls out from the middle of the water, its cry echoing across the calm surface. She says she’s only got another two weeks left on her contract, but she’s got tomorrow night free, no shifts, no plans. He tells her he’ll pick her up at 7, bring the rest of the contest chili, a six pack of that same dark stout he uses in the recipe, and a stack of old Fleetwood Mac bootlegs he’s had since college. She grins, leaning in to press a soft, warm kiss to his cheek before she stands up, brushing sand off her jeans. She waves over her shoulder as she walks back toward the cook-off, her silver hoops catching the last of the sunlight.
He sits on the log for another ten minutes, the spot on his cheek still warm, the grudge he carried for 22 years feeling lighter than a dandelion seed in the wind. He pulls his phone out to text her the address of his cabin, his thumb only fumbling once when he types his name.
