Javi Mendez leaned against the curved aluminum side of a 1964 Airstream he’d spent 6 months stripping and repolishing, condensation from his cold Modelo dripping down his wrist onto the grease-stained cuff of his Carhartt work pants. At 52, he’d been restoring vintage travel trailers for 22 years, had grease crusted under the edges of his fingernails that he’d never fully be able to scrub out, no matter how much Lava soap he used, and had spent the last 8 years deliberately closing himself off to any casual intimacy after his wife left him for a real estate agent she’d met at an open house. The annual downtown block party blared around him, mariachi horns mixing with the sound of kids screaming as they chased each other with water guns, the air thick with the smell of grilled carne asada and powdered sugar from the churro stand three booths down. He’d been dragged there by Rico, the taco shop owner who’d been slipping him free carnitas on slow Tuesdays for a decade, and he’d already mapped his escape route: cut through the alley behind the laundromat, be back in his quiet, empty house in 7 minutes, heat up a frozen bean and cheese burrito, rewatch that old Clint Eastwood western he’d seen a dozen times before passing out on the couch.
He was just about to push off the Airstream to leave when someone stumbled into his side, a plate of warm churros tipping precariously in their hand. He caught the top churro before it hit the asphalt, his calloused palm brushing against soft, ink-stained fingers. “Sorry about that,” she said, laughing, a rough, warm sound that made him pause mid-escape plan. She was leaning in so close he could smell jasmine shampoo mixed with the cinnamon dusting the churros, a streak of silver in her dark brown hair catching the golden late afternoon sun, a smudge of blue ink on her left wrist right above a faded Pearl Jam tattoo. She held eye contact for three full beats, longer than most people did, like she was actually paying attention to what he looked like instead of just scanning for someone more interesting to talk to. She introduced herself as Lena Marquez, had just moved to town three weeks prior to take over her late mom’s used bookstore on the next block. The name hit him like a punch to the chest: Lena was the younger sister of his high school girlfriend, the one his strict, conservative parents had forbidden him from seeing when he was 17, calling her family “trouble” because her dad had done a stint in prison for drunk driving. His ex-wife had even brought her up once during a fight, accusing him of still carrying a torch for the Marquez girl he’d never gotten over.
His first instinct was to make an excuse, say he had to get back to a job, leave before he did something stupid. He’d spent 8 years avoiding any situation that might lead to anything more than a 2 minute conversation with someone he didn’t do business with, convinced it was all just a waste of time, that he was too old for the back and forth, the inevitable let down. But then she sat down on the curb next to him, her knee pressing lightly against his through the thin fabric of her high-waisted denim, and said she’d inherited a beat up 1968 Shasta from her mom, it’d been sitting in her backyard for 15 years, she’d been calling every trailer restorer in town and they were all booked solid for months. “I don’t do side jobs,” he said automatically, even as he found himself leaning in a little closer, his shoulder brushing hers when a group of drunk college kids stumbled past them. She didn’t push, just took a bite of the churro he’d caught, crumbs sticking to the corner of her mouth, and said she got it, she knew how busy skilled trades guys were, she’d just figured she’d ask. She told him about the bookstore, how her mom had run it for 40 years, how there was a whole shelf of old western paperbacks tucked in the back that had his name scrawled in the front cover, he’d checked them out when he was a kid and never returned them.
The sun started to dip below the Santa Catalina mountains, painting the sky pink and tangerine, the mariachi band wrapping up their set, people starting to pack up their coolers and fold up their folding chairs. She stood up, brushing dust off her jeans, and held out her hand to help him up. “I’ve got a bottle of anejo tequila my mom hid under the kitchen sink, aged 7 years,” she said, tilting her head a little, a faint, teasing smile on her face that made his chest feel tight in a way he hadn’t felt in years. “No pressure to fix the Shasta tonight, or ever. We could just crack it open, look at the old trailer, you can tell me how much of a disaster it is.” He stared at her outstretched hand for two seconds, thinking about the frozen burrito waiting for him at home, the quiet empty house, the 8 years he’d spent hiding from anything that might make him feel something other than tired. He took her hand.
They walked the three blocks to her place, the pavement still warm under his scuffed work boots, the sound of crickets starting to chirp in the mesquite trees lining the street. She unlocked the side gate to her backyard, and he spotted the Shasta immediately, tucked under a palo verde tree, its pale yellow paint chipped, a small dent in the front corner from where her mom had hit a cactus on a trip to Sedona in 1998, just like she’d said. She handed him a cold shot glass of tequila a minute later, their fingers brushing again when he took it, this time neither of them pulling away fast. He lifted the glass to his lips, the burn of the tequila hitting his throat at the same time she laughed at something he said about the cactus dent, her shoulder pressed solidly against his.
