Javi Mendez, 52, is a vintage camper restorer who’s spent the last eight years letting resentment toward his ex-wife and a string of deadbeat clients turn him into a near-recluse. He moved to a three-acre plot outside Knoxville, Tennessee, right after his divorce, lives in a fully restored 1968 Shasta, and only leaves his barn shop to pick up parts or grab brisket from the gas station barbecue stand on weekends. He never would’ve shown up to the county’s annual fall chili cookoff if his 17-year-old niece Lila, visiting for the week from El Paso, hadn’t begged him to enter the smoked brisket chili he makes every Sunday. He’d spent three hours tending to the meat the night before, dragged a rickety folding table and string lights from his shop to set up a tiny booth near the bluegrass stage, but he’d already half-decided to pack up and leave an hour early.
He was leaning against the metal leg of his pop-up tent, sipping a cheap lager, pointedly ignoring the glares from Ron, the general contractor who’d stiffed him $1,400 on a 1972 Airstream restoration six months prior, when Lena walked up. She was Ron’s wife—ex-wife, he’d find out moments later—wearing a well-worn plaid flannel tied around her waist, faded cutoff jeans, and scuffed steel-toe work boots, a smudge of chili powder dusted high on her left cheek. She carried a paper plate stacked with honey butter cornbread in one hand, and when she stopped in front of his booth, she leaned in close to be heard over the band’s screaming fiddle solo, her shoulder brushing the bare skin of his bicep where his work shirt sleeve was rolled up to the elbow. “Your niece stopped by my booth ten minutes ago raving about your chili,” she said, her voice low and rasped, like she smoked a half pack of menthols a day, and she smelled like cinnamon and pine cleaner, the exact brand he used to wipe down camper countertops between jobs.
Javi tensed immediately. He’d only seen Lena a handful of times, usually when she dropped off parts for Ron at his shop, and he’d always made a point to keep conversation short, too bitter about the unpaid invoice to be polite. But she didn’t move away, just leaned against the table beside him, nodding at the crockpot sitting on the chili-stained gingham tablecloth. “I brought cornbread to trade,” she said, and when she reached across the table to grab a small sample cup, her wrist brushed his jaw, the skin of her arm soft even where there was a faint, silvery scar from a dog bite she’d mentioned once, years prior, when she’d dropped off a shipment of aluminum siding. He froze, his beer halfway to his mouth, and when he met her eyes, she held his gaze for three beats too long, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a smirk like she knew exactly how flustered he was.
He was torn, every logical part of his brain screaming that he should brush her off, that anyone tied to Ron was bad news, that he didn’t need more drama in his quiet, small life. But the warmth of her shoulder pressed against his, the sound of her laugh when Lila ran up to say hi, the way she twisted a strand of auburn hair behind her ear when she asked about the new camper he was restoring, made that voice feel smaller by the second. He’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone look at him like they actually wanted to hear what he had to say, not just ask him for a discount on a repair.
Ron stormed over before he could ask her about the stray tabby cat he’d posted about on the local Facebook group last month, the one with a torn ear he’d been looking for for weeks. Ron was red-faced, holding a half-empty beer in his hand, swaying a little like he’d already had too many. “What the hell are you doing talking to this crook?” he yelled, loud enough that a few nearby families turned to stare. Javi set his beer down hard on the table, ready to snap back, but Lena beat him to it, standing up straight and crossing her arms.
“We’ve been divorced for two months, Ron,” she said, cold and sharp, no hesitation. “I know you skipped out on paying him because you blew that money on your stupid elk hunting trip with your buddies. Don’t make an ass of yourself in front of half the county.” Ron blinked, stared at her for a second like he couldn’t believe she was talking back, then muttered a string of curses under his breath and stormed off toward the beer tent.
Lena huffed a laugh, shook her head, and grabbed Javi’s calloused, grease-stained hand, her own fingers rough from tending to the vegetable garden at the small cottage she’d moved into after the split, pulling him away from the booth, past the line of food trucks, where the noise of the band was quieter, the air smelling like smoked pork and roasted marshmallows from the fire pit down the row. “I’ve been meaning to come talk to you for weeks,” she said, leaning against the side of a street taco truck, still holding his hand, her thumb brushing the thick, raised scar on his knuckle from when he dropped an axle on his hand last winter. “I didn’t want to deal with Ron’s drama, but I’ve seen you driving that beat-up blue Ford past my house every morning on your way to the parts store, and I wanted to ask if you wanted to get coffee sometime.”
Javi stared at her for a second, the last of his tight, cold resentment melting away, the knot in his chest he’d carried for years loosening for the first time in as long as he could remember. He didn’t even care about the $1,400 anymore, didn’t care about the years he’d spent hiding away in his shop, avoiding any kind of connection that might end in hurt. He asked her if she wanted to skip the rest of the cookoff, go get carnitas tacos and a cold beer at the dive bar ten minutes down the road, and she grinned, squeezing his hand so hard her nails dug a little into his palm.
He tugs her toward the parking lot, the sound of the bluegrass band fading behind them, her laugh mixing with the crickets chirping in the tall grass at the edge of the fairground.
