The September coastal breeze cuts through Manny Rios’s faded navy DFW ATC hoodie as he leans against a splintered picnic table at the town’s annual chili cookoff. The air reeks of smoked paprika, charred meat, and salt rolling off the bay, and a group of commercial fishermen yell so loud over a college football argument that his left ear rings a little. He’d told himself he’d only stay 45 minutes, long enough to drop off the $20 donation he owed the volunteer fire department and say hi to a few people, then head home to watch the Rangers game with his rescue beagle, Radar. The unspoken addendum to that plan: leave before Clara Marquez showed up.
He’d avoided her for three weeks straight, ever since they’d bumped into each other at the IGA and he’d made a stupid joke about pickled okra tasting like rubber boot soles, and she’d laughed so hard she snort-laughed. He’d spent the next three days replaying that sound in his head every time he tried to sleep. Clara was Jake Marquez’s ex-wife, and Jake was his go-to fishing buddy, the guy who’d taught him how to catch Dungeness crab his first month in town, who’d ranted just last week over a beer that he’d beat the ever-loving crap out of any guy who so much as looked at Clara wrong. Manny, 62, spent 34 years as an air traffic controller before retiring to the coast, a split-second misjudgment early in his career almost put two 737s on the same runway, so he’d spent every year since avoiding any choice that didn’t have a pre-vetted, low-risk outcome. He didn’t do mess, didn’t do lines that were clearly drawn, didn’t do choices that could blow up in his face.
He turns to grab a root beer from the cooler at his feet, and his shoulder slams right into someone warm. He stumbles back a step, his half-eaten plate of brisket chili tilting, and a cold splash of iced tea hits his left wrist. “Whoa, sorry, I wasn’t looking—” he starts, and then he looks up, and it’s Clara. She’s wearing cutoff denim shorts and a faded Flamin’ Hot Cheetos t-shirt, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, and there’s a smudge of green chili powder on her left cheekbone, just like there was last winter when he’d helped her fix her leaky rain gutter and she’d brought him a bowl of chili to say thank you. Her hip is pressed to his side, solid and warm, for two full seconds before she steps back, and she grabs a crumpled napkin from her pocket, dabbing at the tea on his wrist before he can stop her. Her fingers are warm even through the paper, calloused at the tips from her small-batch pottery business, and he feels a jolt run up his arm that has nothing to do with the cold tea.
“I was looking for you, actually,” she says, and she doesn’t look away from his eyes, her hazel irises flecked with gold like the little flecks of mica in the beach sand down by his cottage. “I entered the green chili contest this year. Want a taste?” Every alarm bell in Manny’s head goes off, the same blaring warning he used to hear on the tower radio when a plane was off course. This is a bad idea, this is crossing a line, this is the kind of impulsive choice he’s spent 40 years avoiding. But she’s already holding a plastic spoon out to him, the bowl of the spoon heaped with bright green chili dotted with corn and black beans, and he can’t say no.
They walk away from the crowd, down the rickety wooden dock that juts 100 yards out into the bay, no one else around, just the sound of waves slapping against the pilings and seagulls crying overhead. He takes the bite of chili, and it’s perfect, roasted Hatch chiles and just enough lime and a hint of cilantro that doesn’t overpower everything else. “That’s the best damn thing I’ve eaten all year,” he says, honest, and she grins, leaning in a little so her shoulder brushes his. The sun hits her hair just right, and he can smell coconut shampoo and roasted chiles on her, and for a second he forgets how to breathe.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you alone for months,” she says, soft enough that only he can hear it. “Jake’s full of crap, you know. We’ve been separated for a year, divorced for six, and he’s been dating my cousin Lila for four months. He just acts like he’s still heartbroken so no one gives him crap for leaving me for her.” Manny blinks, the alarm bells in his head going quiet all at once. “I liked you the second you showed up to fix my gutter last winter and didn’t even ask for a beer as payment,” she says, and she lifts her thumb, brushing a fleck of chili off his lower lip, her skin warm against his mouth.
The part of him that’s spent decades clinging to safety, to no-risk choices, to never rocking the boat, is screaming at him to step back, to make an excuse, to go home to his beagle and his baseball game. But the other part of him, the part that’s been lonely since his wife died 12 years ago, the part that hasn’t felt this light in decades, is louder. “I’ve wanted to ask you out since that day,” he says, quiet, like he’s admitting something he’s ashamed of. “I was too scared to mess things up with Jake, too used to making the safe call.”
She laughs, that snort-laugh he’s been replaying in his head for weeks, and she laces her fingers through his, her hand warm and calloused in his. “Jake owes me $500 in back child support. He’s not gonna say a damn thing,” she says, and she tugs him toward the parking lot. “I got a pitcher of frozen margaritas in my fridge, and a whole pot of that green chili left. Wanna come over?” Manny doesn’t even hesitate, doesn’t run through a list of pros and cons, doesn’t calculate the risk. He just nods, squeezing her hand a little, the cold coastal breeze cutting through his hoodie but not feeling cold at all, not with her next to him. He follows her across the grass, his scuffed work boots thudding against the packed dirt path leading to the parking lot.
