Rafe Mendez, 53, makes his living restoring vintage campers out of the cinder block workshop behind his Austin bungalow. He’s avoided the annual neighborhood block party every year since his divorce eight years prior, still sore that his ex met the guy she left him for at the exact same event he’d skipped to finish sanding a 1969 Winnebago’s dashboard. His 17-year-old niece strong-armed him into showing up this year, though, threatening to post baby photos of him in a frilly Easter bonnet to his Instagram if he didn’t stop by her paleta stand for her soccer team fundraiser.
He shows up still in his faded Carhartt overalls, grease crusted under the edges of his fingernails, a frayed cotton shop rag sticking out his back pocket, the scent of lacquer thinner and cedar sawdust clinging to his clothes even after he’d hosed off in the driveway. The air hums with the high squeal of kids on the bounce house, Stevie Nicks’ voice drifting from a beat-up bluetooth speaker propped on a folding table, the thick, savory smell of grilled brats and charred corn mixing with citronella and coconut sunscreen. He makes a beeline for his niece’s stand, buys three mango paletas, shoves two in his cooler for later, and is already mentally mapping his exit route when someone bumps his shoulder.
He turns, ready to mumble an apology and keep moving, and finds himself face to face with Lila, his next door neighbor who moved in three months prior. He’s only waved at her twice from across the driveway, both times when he was covered in so much fiberglass dust he looked like a snowman, never actually spoken. She’s leaning against the same cooler he’s been hovering by, holding a black cherry seltzer, her pale yellow linen dress dotted with tiny dandelion prints, a faint coffee stain on the hem just above her scuffed white sneakers. She doesn’t pull away when their shoulders press together, just smirks, the corner of her mouth tugging up like she’s already amused by him.
“You’re the guy who’s always running power tools at 8 a.m. on Saturdays,” she says, her voice low, a little rough like she’s been laughing all afternoon. “I’ve been meaning to knock and yell at you, but the Airstream in your side yard is too pretty to stay mad over.”
Rafe scratches the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious about the smudge of white paint on his jaw he’d missed when he washed up. He’s spent the last eight years deliberately keeping people at arm’s length, especially anyone who lives within a five block radius, convinced any connection will end up as messy as his marriage. But she’s still standing close enough that he can smell jasmine and vanilla on her skin, her bare arm brushing his every time someone walks past them, and he can’t bring himself to step back.
She mentions she inherited a 1968 Scotty Sportsman from her dad before he died last year, it’s been sitting in her garage gathering dust ever since, she doesn’t know the first thing about restoring it. She gestures with her seltzer can as she talks, her knuckles brushing his forearm, and he feels a jolt like static from the dry summer air, sharp and warm, lingering long after she pulls her hand back. She doesn’t apologize, just holds his eye contact a beat longer than necessary, says she’d pay him his normal rate, obviously, plus throw in as many peach pies as he wants, she bakes one every Sunday and has been giving half away now that it’s just her.
He’s halfway to his go-to excuse, I’m swamped with client work for the next three months, when a kid in a neon soccer jersey runs full tilt into Lila’s side. She stumbles forward, and he catches her by the waist without thinking, her hand fisting the front of his overalls to steady herself. For a second they’re just standing there, pressed chest to chest, her breath fanning across his neck, his hand splayed over the soft fabric of her dress at her hip. He can feel the heat of her skin through the linen, the rapid thud of her heartbeat against his, and for the first time in years he doesn’t feel the urge to run.
She doesn’t step back right away, just tilts her head up, her hazel eyes flecked with green glinting in the string lights strung between the oak trees. “I don’t bite, Rafe,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear, the corner of her mouth quirked up in a tease. “Unless you ask nicely.”
He laughs, a genuine, loud laugh that catches him off guard, he hasn’t laughed like that since he was a kid camping with his own dad. He tells her he’s free tomorrow at 2, she can bring the pie first, then they can drag the Scotty out of her garage and take a look at it. She grins, grabs his beat up old iPhone out of his hand, types her number in, adds a tiny peach emoji next to her name before she hands it back.
He stays for another hour, sits with her on the curb, shares his second paleta with her, listens to her ramble about all the camping trips she took in that Scotty as a kid, how her dad used to let her drive it down the dirt roads of their family’s lake property even though she was only 12. He doesn’t check his watch once, which he usually does every 10 minutes when he’s talking to someone new, doesn’t even think about the half-finished Airstream waiting for him in his workshop.
When he walks her to her front door as the sun dips below the rooftops, she pauses on the porch step, leans in, brushes a fleck of dried paleta juice off his chin with her thumb, her skin warm against his. “Don’t be late tomorrow,” she says, turning to unlock her door.
Rafe nods, shoves his hands in his overalls pockets as he walks back to his house, the shop rag still sticking out the back, the taste of mango and cherry seltzer still lingering on his tongue. He glances over at her garage as he unlocks his own front door, already mentally making a list of tools to bring over the next day.
