Javi Mendez, 59, vintage camper restoration specialist, had only showed up to the Maple Street block party because his buddy Ron owed him $200 for a carburetor rebuild and said he’d fork over the cash only if Javi brought his famous hickory-smoked ribs. He’d planned to dump the foil pan of ribs on the food table, grab the cash, and bolt back to his workshop before any of the local well-meaning busybodies could corner him to set him up with their cousin, their sister, their recently divorced dental hygienist. Eight years after his wife Elena passed, he still hated the pitying looks, the quiet “you need to get back out there” speeches he’d heard a hundred times.
The air reeked of charcoal, cheap beer, and the soggy potato salad half the neighborhood brought every year. Javi was wiping barbecue sauce off his calloused knuckles with a paper napkin when a warm weight bumped his lower back, soft and solid, for half a beat before the person stumbled back with a quiet apology. He turned, and there she was—Clara, his new neighbor who’d moved into the old Henderson place three months prior, who ran the used bookstore downtown he’d walked past a dozen times but never worked up the nerve to go into. She was holding a jar of pickled okra in one hand, the hem of her sunflower-print dress smudged with grass, hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid that had come half undone. She smelled like lavender and old paper, the kind of scent that sticks to your clothes after you spend an hour flipping through hardcovers in a sunlit room.
She laughed, the sound bright over the hum of conversation and the 70s soul playing from the portable speaker by the fire hydrant, and said she’d been meaning to stop by his shop for weeks. She’d found a tattered 1972 Airstream owner’s manual at a garage sale up in Portland, knew he worked on those, figured he could use it more than she could. Javi’s first instinct was to make an excuse, say he was swamped with work, didn’t have time to chat, but she leaned in a little, elbow brushing his bicep as she pointed to a group of kids chasing each other with water guns, and said she’d already turned down three separate offers to be set up with the “very nice, very single” retired high school math teacher who lived two blocks over, so he didn’t have to worry about her trying to rope him into anything awkward.
That caught him off guard. He chuckled, took a sip of the IPA he’d grabbed off the drink table, and agreed it tasted like dish soap mixed with citrus, just like she’d said. They drifted over to the shade of the big oak tree at the end of the block, out of the way of the line for the bounce house and the group of retirees playing cornhole. For the first time in years, Javi didn’t feel like he was counting down the minutes until he could leave. She didn’t mention Elena, didn’t ask why he lived alone, didn’t push when he paused before talking about the 1968 Volkswagen Westfalia he’d been restoring for himself in his spare time, the one he’d bought the month before Elena got sick, that he’d left half-finished in the back of his shop for seven years.
A kid with a neon blue water gun came sprinting past, screaming, and hosed both of them before anyone could move. Clara yelped, cold water soaking the front of her dress, and grabbed his forearm to steady herself, her palm warm through his thin work shirt, calloused at the fingertips from turning book pages and stacking boxes. Javi didn’t pull away. He offered to walk her home, her sandals squelching in the grass, and she agreed, tucking the jar of okra under her arm as they said quick goodbyes to Ron, who winked so hard Javi thought his eye might get stuck.
Javi hesitated for half a second, the old familiar voice in his head yelling that he was just setting himself up for more hurt, that he was too old for this, that he should turn her down and go back to his quiet, predictable life alone. Then he looked at her, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, waiting, and said he’d love that, and mentioned the Westfalia, said if she wanted, once it was finished, they could take it out to the coast for a weekend, camp right on the beach.
She smiled, nodded, and said she’d bring the pickled okra.
Javi walked back to his house, the manual tucked under his arm, the cold spot on his shirt from the water gun still clinging to his skin. He paused on his front porch, turning to look back at her place, and saw her still standing in the doorway, waving. He lifted a hand to wave back, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and tucked the manual under his arm a little tighter, already thinking about what side dish he could bring to pair with her chili relleno.
