Rafe Marquez, 52, makes his living restoring vintage campers out of a converted barn on 5 acres of scrubland outside Burns, Oregon, and he’d rather drive three hours to Boise for a parts run than make small talk at a town event. He’s avoided anything that could stoke local gossip since his divorce seven years prior, when his ex left him for a cattle rancher three towns over and half the county picked sides. He only showed up to the 4th of July park barbecue because his 82-year-old next door neighbor, Mabel, begged him to bring the oak-smoked brisket he’d spent 12 hours tending, promising she’d leave him alone to fix her broken screen door for the next six months if he showed face for an hour minimum.
He leans against the splintered edge of a picnic table at the far end of the park, cold IPA in one hand, the other tucked in the pocket of his grease-stained Carhartt shorts, watching kids chase each other with water guns and avoid the glares of their harried parents. He’s 45 minutes from checking the “I showed up” box and bailing when he spots her. Lena Hale, the new town librarian who moved to Burns three months prior, fresh off a messy divorce from the Harney County sheriff. Half the men in town have already tried to buy her a drink at the only bar downtown, and half have been shut down cold, and everyone knows the sheriff still drives past her small bungalow on the edge of town twice a night like he’s still patrolling his property.
She’s kneeling by the popsicle cooler, wiping blue raspberry slush off the cheek of a squirming 6-year-old, and when she laughs, her auburn hair falls over her shoulder, catching the golden late afternoon sun. Rafe’s throat goes dry. He tells himself he’s just tired, that he doesn’t need another mess to clean up, that dating the sheriff’s ex would make the gossip from his first divorce look like a friendly chat over coffee. He turns to grab his half-empty brisket pan from the table, ready to leave early, when a kid on a neon pink bike swerves directly into his path. He stumbles backward, beer sloshing over the edge of the can onto his wrist, and a warm, firm hand wraps around his elbow to steady him before he can trip over a folding chair.
“Easy there,” she says, and when he looks down, her thumb brushes the thin, pale scar on his forearm from the table saw accident he had two winters back, when he was working alone in the barn and had to drive himself to the ER with a towel wrapped around his arm. He smells lavender lotion mixed with cherry Kool-Aid, the same flavor the kid she’d been tending to was spilling down his shirt five minutes prior. Her hazel eyes hold his for two beats too long, no polite look away, no awkward laugh, like she’s not scared of anyone seeing them talking. She nods at the custom 1972 Airstream keychain hanging off his belt loop, the one he made himself out of a scrap of aluminum from the first camper he ever restored. “That your shop on Route 20? I’ve got a 1968 Scotty I inherited from my grandma, been looking for someone who won’t charge me twice what it’s worth to patch the water damage and reupholster the cushions.”
Rafe hesitates for three full seconds. He knows if anyone sees them exchanging numbers, the rumor mill will be spinning before the sun goes down. The sheriff’s got friends everywhere, and Rafe doesn’t need him showing up to his shop with a chip on his shoulder, messing up his orders, making his quiet life harder. But her hand is still on his elbow, warm through the thin cotton of his flannel shirt, and she’s smiling like she knows exactly what he’s worried about, like she doesn’t care anyway. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, hands it to her, and her fingers brush his when she takes it. She types her number in, saves it under “Lena (Scotty Girl)” and hands it back, her thumb brushing the side of his hand on the passoff.
He makes it back to his property 20 minutes later, tosses the leftover brisket in his fridge, and sits on his porch swing, sipping another beer, staring at his phone like it’s got a bomb in it. He’s still talking himself out of texting her when he hears the distant booms of the first fireworks going off over the park, painting the sky pink and orange and electric blue. He’s watching a red firework burst overhead when he hears a knock on his front gate. He stands up, walks over, and there she is, holding a pair of white cat-eye sunglasses in one hand, wearing a faded Fleetwood Mac t-shirt and cutoff jeans, her bare feet dusted with gravel from the dirt road leading up to his place. “Said I left these by your picnic table,” she says, grinning, and he can tell she’s lying, that she just drove 20 minutes out of town to see him, that she doesn’t care who saw her leave.
He leans against the gate post, and she steps closer, close enough that he can smell that lavender lotion again, close enough that he can feel the heat coming off her skin through the thin fabric of her shirt. The fireworks boom in the distance, lighting up her face, and she tilts her chin up, no hesitation. He doesn’t pull away when she kisses him, the taste of root beer and mint on her tongue, and for the first time in seven years, he doesn’t care what anyone says, doesn’t care if the sheriff drives by and sees them, doesn’t care if the whole town is talking about them by tomorrow morning.
He pulls back, nods toward the barn where he’s got a half-restored 1971 Winnebago parked by the Airstream he’s finishing for a client in Portland. “Wanna see the shop?” he says, and she laces her fingers through his, calluses from turning pages all day rubbing against the calluses on his hands from sanding aluminum and turning wrenches. He leads her across the yard, the last golden firework bursting overhead, painting the curved metal sides of the campers glowing silver for half a second before the dark settles back in.
