He gropes at my chest and my breath hitches, the lump in my throat impossible to swallow.
My stomach twists. I don’t want this.
I struggle, but I’m blocked by the tree. Desperate to move away, I pry at his hands, but his tall frame is no match for my petite size.
“P-please … Stop, please.” My voice shakes, betraying my discomfort as his hands roam places I’ve never been touched.
There’s a rip, and it echoes through the night forest that’s slowly blurring at the edges as panic sets in.
This isn’t how it was supposed to be.
“No.” I whimper, the hot tears slowly slipping down my cheeks while the rest of the unwelcome sensations hollow me out, becoming numb with each grab and squeeze.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be …
I jerk at the memory and drop the necklace into my shirt, slapping my hand over my chest as the rapid pounding in my chest slowly falters.
Reaching to start my car, I sigh, shrugging off the debilitating pain. I glance at the flyer haphazardly thrown onto the seat next to me. The chili cook-off starts in an hour, and because I can’t sitin this parking lot a minute longer, I speed off, reaching for my vape pen in the center console as I do.
The annual Pinebrook chili cook-off is bigger than I expected. It’s more like a festival. Traffic has slowed to a crawl as detour signs riddle the main road through downtown Pinebrook. They’ve blocked off a wide portion of Main Street with metal barricades, so I follow other vehicles weaving through the side streets, looking for parking.
There’s a spot several paces away, and I slide my old piece of shit car between a pristine BMW and a Mercedes, both with out-of-state plates. This entire event is probably a vortex for tourists, looking for something to do while they visit the smallish town of Pinebrook.
I clamber out, careful to avoid smacking my door into the car next to me, and squeeze through the narrow space between them as I make my way to the tents.
The November breeze is that crisp chilled air that reminds me of walking into the shade from being outside in the sun all day. The bite of it makes it perfect for chili, and my mouth waters the closer I get. I inhale a breath of the warm, spicy aroma suspended in the light wind.
Even though it’s still light out, amber and orange lights line the sectioned-off square, draping from tent to tent. Tables are lined up underneath and on them are simmering pots, each one decorated with cheerfully unique signs proclaiming their chili is the “best in the west.”
The crowd is fairly thick, with people wrapped in thin jackets and sweaters navigating the booths, with tiny cups of chili in hand and mini wooden spoons in the other.
A long table sits in the center of the square with a blue banner draped in front that reads: Judges. While no one is seated, you can’t miss them in the crowd. They’re the only ones in suits and ties or skirts and dresses, walking around murmuring phrases like “a hint of cumin” or “too much smoked paprika.”
Close by, live music—a cross between bluegrass and rock—filters through the chatter and sets a lively rhythm for the kids to dart around and dance to.
The event is free, but there’s a line for registration. Those who have already registered walk away with a clipboard and a list of those participating. Apparently, there’s an award for the crowd favorite.
Honestly, the entire thing seems like something my hometown Ruin, Mississippi, would do. Of course, there’s more people in Pinebrook, but the tight-knit community vibes are spinning their web and nostalgia settles over me. For a moment, I get lost in the atmosphere, my heart pounding as I remember another life, my family.
I huff out a breath—the puff turning into a wispy fog in the late fall air. My stomach growls, and I’m thankful to be only two couples away from registration, so I can finally dish up some chili.
When I make it to the front, a basket of warm cornbread muffins sits there.
“How many?” a middle-aged woman asks. Her coppery auburn hair is pulled into a practical braid that hangs over one shoulder, a streak of silver catching the lowering sunlight. On the tip of her nose balances a pair of reading glasses that reminds me of a librarian as she flips through the clipboards. A bunched chili-red apron is tied snugly around her waist, and a collection of pepper enamel pins is stuck sporadically around her name badge that reads Spicy Queen.
“Just one,” I respond, hushed. It’s now I realize, glancing around, I’m here alone while most people are with significant others or their families.
“Okay.” She smiles at me, handing me a clipboard. “We have over fifty chilis here today, all made by locals, surrounding restaurants, or hobby cooks. They’re all listed here. In order for your vote for crowd favorite to be counted, you must have sampled at least twenty of the chilis. Okay? Muffin?” Her beady eyes stare up at me and I wouldn’t be surprised if the woman snorted chili powder.
I take the clipboard and muffin she has extended and offer her a nod before moving over to allow the PDA-obsessed couple behind me to come forward. Twenty chilis with my ravenous stomach should be no problem.
As I backpedal, I bump into a vendor booth and the smell of cinnamon-dusted donuts wafts past my nose. It seamlessly transports me to Ruin and into my grandparents’ bed-and-breakfast. The delicious comfort breakfast, the midafternoon desserts she’d leave out for guests, and her affinity for garden gnomes—the memories morph into a sour stomach at the thought of never seeing them again.
Can I ever go home? Or more importantly … do I want to?
The leaves of the surrounding trees lining the sidewalk are another hodgepodge mix of golden yellows and deep reds, like ripe pomegranates. It’s peaceful, despite the endless babble eating away at it.
I follow my nose to the first booth, the young woman dishing out small tasting bowls. The card in front of her says PETE’S MARKET in obnoxious bubblegum pink.
