Rafe Mendez, 53, has spent the last seven years restoring vintage motorcycles out of a cinder block garage in west Asheville, and the last seven years avoiding anything that feels like a new connection. His ex-wife remarried four years back, but he still keeps a crumpled photo of their 2002 cross-country bike trip tucked in his wallet, still turns down every set-up his sister begs him to go on, still tells himself he’s better off alone with his wrenches and his old Merle Haggard records. He only entered the neighborhood chili cook-off because his regular customer, a 22-year-old kid who works at the coffee shop down the street, dared him to, said his abuela’s chipotle chili could beat the church ladies’ bland tomato slop by a mile.
He’s wiping a smudge of chili grease off the cuff of his faded Sturgis hoodie when she walks up, six inches from his folding table, so close he can smell cinnamon and cedar shampoo over the smoky scent of slow-cooked meat. She’s the new neighbor who moved into the blue bungalow three doors down three weeks prior; he’s only waved at her through the fence when she’s hauling moving boxes, never spoken a full sentence. She’s wearing a faded Pearl Jam flannel tied around her waist, scuffed work boots, a tiny tattoo of a 1970s Honda peeking out from the cuff of her jeans. “Heard this is the only booth here that doesn’t taste like canned kidney beans and regret,” she says, grinning, and Rafe snorts before he can stop himself.