Earl Hackett, 62, retired cattle auctioneer from east Texas, had driven 45 minutes to the Coconino County chili cookoff only because his 12-year-old grandson had begged him to enter the brisket chili he’d spent 20 years perfecting. He’d planned to stay an hour, collect his second or third place ribbon, and head back to his cabin before the crowd got too rowdy. That plan went out the window the second he spotted Lorna Mae Carter across the park.
He froze mid-sip of Shiner Bock, beer sloshing over the edge of the can onto his worn work boots. He’d not seen her in 18 years, not since the screaming match two days before his wedding where she’d accused him of cheating on his fiancée with an old high school girlfriend at his bachelor party. The story had been a lie, one she’d picked up from her deadbeat ex-boyfriend who’d held a grudge against Earl for beating him out of a 4-H steer championship back in 1992. His wife had almost called the whole thing off, and Earl had sworn he’d never speak to Lorna again, even when his wife had tried to mend fences in the years before she passed three years prior.
Lorna spotted him before he could duck behind the folding table holding his crockpot. She hesitated for half a second, then started walking over, boots caked in red northern Arizona dirt, faded Wrangler button-down tied at her waist, a thick silver streak cutting through the dark brown hair he’d once thought was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. She stopped 18 inches from his chair, close enough that he could smell cedar horse shampoo and smoked paprika on her shirt, no trace of the sickly sweet floral perfume she’d worn in her 20s. She held his gaze, didn’t look away first, that same lopsided grin tugging at the corner of her mouth, the one that used to make his chest feel tight even when he was mad at her.
“Figured I’d find you here,” she said, nodding at the crockpot. “Heard from your sister you moved up here last year. Still make that chili so spicy it makes grown men cry?”
Earl grunted, wiped the beer off his boot with a paper napkin. He should tell her to leave. He should grab his crockpot, load it in his truck, and go home. Instead he jerked his chin at the empty picnic bench across from him. “Sit if you want. Got extra bowls.”
She sat, her knee brushing his under the table when she shifted to get comfortable, didn’t pull away. He dished up a bowl of chili, slid it across the table, their fingers brushing when she took it from him. Her skin was calloused, rough from 10 years of grooming horses, he remembered the scar across her knuckle from when she’d fallen off his quarter horse when they were 25, out riding the pastures outside Tyler.
“I owe you an apology,” she said after three bites, wiping chili off her chin with the back of her hand. “Found out two years ago that ex of mine made the whole thing up. Said he did it to get back at you for that steer. I’ve been kicking myself ever since. Tried to call your wife a few times, but I was too much of a coward to leave a message.”
Earl stared at her. He’d spent 18 years imagining this moment, imagining all the sharp, cruel things he’d say to her if he ever saw her again. Now all he could focus on was the way the golden hour sun hit the silver streak in her hair, the crinkles around her eyes when she frowned, like she was genuinely scared he’d yell at her.
“Took you long enough,” he said finally, and she huffed a laugh, leaning forward a little, her shoulder brushing his when she reached for the bottle of hot sauce next to his elbow.
They talked for an hour, the noise of the cookoff fading into background static as she told him she’d moved up to Flagstaff 11 months prior, ran a mobile horse grooming business out of a converted van, lived in a small cottage on 10 acres outside town. He told her about his wife’s battle with ovarian cancer, about his grandson’s obsession with team roping, about the 12 head of cattle he kept on his property. Her knee stayed pressed to his the whole time, their hands brushing every time one of them reached for the beer cooler or the salt shaker. She held his gaze when he talked about his wife, no pity in her eyes, just quiet understanding, and he felt that old, forbidden tug in his chest he’d tried to ignore for 30 years, the one he’d thought he’d buried with his wife.
“I had a crush on you, you know,” she said quietly, when the winners were being announced over the loudspeaker, someone blaring George Strait’s Amarillo by Morning from a pickup truck parked at the edge of the park. “Back when you were dating my cousin. That’s why I believed that idiot so easy. I was jealous. Stupid as hell.”
Earl went quiet, staring at the empty bowl between them. He’d never told anyone, not even his wife, that he’d thought about Lorna more times than he could count back then, that he’d almost called off the wedding himself once, because he couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to kiss that lopsided grin off her face. He’d felt guilty about it for decades, like he’d been cheating on his wife even when he’d never laid a hand on Lorna.
“Me too,” he said, so quiet he almost didn’t hear it himself, and her eyes widened a little, then softened, a slow smile spreading across her face.
The prizes were handed out, his grandson came running over with a third place ribbon for his chili, chattering about the pony rides he’d gone on, and Earl gave him the $20 he’d promised if he placed, told his daughter he’d catch a ride with a friend later, that he was gonna stay for a drink. His daughter raised an eyebrow when she saw Lorna, but didn’t say anything, just herded the kid towards their minivan.
When the crowd was almost gone, Lorna stood, brushing crumbs off her jeans, and nodded towards the road. “There’s a dive bar 10 minutes from here that serves cold Shiner and fried pickles. You wanna go?”
Earl nodded, grabbed his crockpot, carried it to his beat up Ford F-150, Lorna walking beside him. She brushed her hand against his as they walked, laced their fingers together for half a second, warm and calloused, before letting go to climb into the passenger seat. He turned the key in the ignition, George Strait’s familiar drawl spilling low from the speakers, and pulled out of the parking lot, not looking back.
