Moe Sorrentino is 52, runs a vintage travel trailer restoration shop out of the two-car garage attached to his east Austin bungalow. He’s avoided every neighborhood event for seven years, ever since his wife packed her suitcase and drove off in the fully restored 1968 Shasta he’d spent 18 months building for their planned cross-country retirement road trip. His biggest flaw? He holds grudges like he’s getting paid for it, still mutters about the neighbor who backed into his fence three years ago every time he sees the guy walking his golden retriever. So when his 19-year-old part time assistant Javi practically shoves him out the door to the monthly food truck rally on the next block, Moe’s already counting down the minutes until he can go home, crack a cold Lonestar, and sand the oak cabinet doors on the 1971 Airstream he’s working on for a client in Dallas.
He’s leaning against a street sign, sipping his beer and pretending to scroll on his phone when he spots her. Clara Voss, 48, the county health inspector who’d written him a $120 fine six weeks prior for not posting a handwashing sign within three feet of his utility sink. He’d argued until he was red in the face, told her the sign was taped to the shelf right above the sink, but she’d just smiled that tight, professional smile and handed him the ticket, not even glancing at the half-finished trailer behind him that he’d put 200 hours into already. He’d ranted about her to Javi for three straight days, called her a pencil-pushing jobsworth who got off on bossing hardworking people around for no reason.
Now she’s leaning against the side of the fried taco truck, holding a loaded avocado taco in one hand and a frozen margarita in the other, wearing a faded burnt orange Longhorns cap, frayed cutoff jean shorts, and scuffed brown cowboy boots instead of the tailored gray blazer and slacks she’d worn to his shop. Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose braid that falls over her shoulder, and she’s laughing at something the taco vendor said, her eyes crinkling so hard at the corners he can see the faint laugh lines fanning out from her temples. She catches him staring, and her grin widens, sharp and teasing, before she pushes off the truck’s metal side and walks straight toward him.
She stops so close he can smell coconut sunscreen and the tart lime from her margarita, mixed with the faint smoky scent of grilled elote from the food truck behind her. “Sorrentino. Didn’t think I’d see you out here. Figured you were holed up in your garage, yelling at power tools and ignoring all posted signage.” Her elbow brushes his bare forearm when she gestures to the beer in his hand, and he feels a jolt go up his arm that has nothing to do with the 90 degree evening heat clinging to the street. He opens his mouth to snap back about the stupid fine, but she holds up a cinnamon sugar churro bite she’d been holding in a crumpled napkin, offering it to him. “Don’t be a dick, try one. The lady at the dessert truck makes them fresh every hour, no frozen garbage.”
When he reaches out to take it, their fingers brush, and he feels the rough, familiar callus on the side of her index finger, the same kind of callus he has on his own hands from holding sanders and power tools for hours at a time. He blinks, takes the churro bite, it’s warm and sweet, the coarse sugar melting on his tongue. “You work with your hands?” he asks before he can stop himself, the usual sharp edge gone from his voice. She smirks, takes a slow sip of her margarita, the condensation from the plastic cup dripping down her wrist. “Restore vintage western saddles on the side. Been doing it since I was 12, my dad ran a saddle shop outside San Antonio. That’s why I knew your fine was bullshit, by the way. The sign was right where you said it was, clear as day.”
He freezes, mid-chew, the cinnamon sugar still sticking to his lip. “Then why’d you write it?” She shrugs, shifting her weight so her shoulder is almost pressed to his, the thin cotton of her tank top warm against his arm. “I’d been trying to find an excuse to talk to you for three weeks. Saw your posts on the neighborhood group about the Shasta you restored last year, the one with the hand-painted sunflowers on the side? I’ve got a beat-up 1972 Airstream sitting in my backyard I’ve been trying to find someone to restore for months. You were so grumpy when I knocked on your shop door I didn’t think you’d listen if I just asked for a quote. Fined you the minimum amount possible, figured it’d get you to remember me, at least.”
The mariachi band playing two stalls over shifts to a slower, softer cumbia, and the sun dips below the roofline of the houses across the street, painting the whole sky streaky pink and tangerine. He’s still a little mad about the fine, still half convinced this is some kind of elaborate prank, but he can’t remember the last time anyone went out of their way to talk to him, let alone pulled a dumb, chaotic stunt just to get his attention. The sharp, hot disgust he’d carried around for weeks at the thought of her fades fast, replaced by a warm, thrumming curiosity he’d thought was long dead after his wife drove off that morning seven years prior.
She nods her head toward the residential blocks behind them, twisting the cap off a cold bottle of beer she grabs from the cooler slung over her shoulder as she speaks. “It’s parked right out back, under the oak tree. I’ve got more beer in the fridge, if you want to come take a look. No pressure to give me a quote tonight. We can just talk about trailers, or saddles, or whatever you want. No fine print, I promise.” Moe nods, tossing his empty beer can in the public trash can next to the street sign. He doesn’t even think about the half finished oak cabinet doors waiting for him on his workbench, doesn’t think about the grudge he’s been nursing for six weeks, doesn’t think about any of the excuses he’d usually mumble to get out of interacting with someone new.
They walk side by side down the sidewalk, their shoulders brushing every few steps, and when they turn onto his street, he sees that her house, two doors down from his, has the porch light on already, casting a warm golden glow over the small patch of native wildflowers she’s planted in her front yard. When she reaches the front steps, she turns to look at him, the glow from the porch light gilding the edge of her braid and catching the faint silver streaks threaded through the dark hair at her temple.
