Javi Mendez, 53, makes his living restoring vintage travel trailers out of a converted barn outside La Grande, Oregon, and he hasn’t voluntarily put himself in a position to be gossiped about since his ex-wife left him for a 28-year-old ski instructor 12 years prior. His biggest flaw, if you ask the few people who know him well, is that he’d rather sand a rusted Airstream frame for 12 hours straight than make small talk with anyone who might ask personal questions. He only shows up to the weekly town square beer garden when he owes the local metal supplier a beer, and he always plans to leave within 20 minutes tops.
This particular July evening, the sun hangs low enough to paint the oak trees pink, and the air hums with the buzz of crickets and the twang of the volunteer bluegrass band set up by the fountain. The town council only voted to allow spiked paleta sales at the garden two weeks prior, and half the old regulars are still grumbling about it, calling it “big city nonsense” that’ll attract the wrong crowd. Javi’s been avoiding the paleta stand on principle, mostly because everyone in town knows the woman running it is Lila Ruiz, ex-wife of the former mayor, who’s got a reputation for telling off anyone who dares ask her why she left him. He’s heard the guys at the auto shop call her “too much trouble” more times than he can count, so he keeps his head down, sipping his hazy IPA, waiting for his metal supplier to show.
He glances up right as she locks eyes with him from behind the stand. She’s wearing cut off denim shorts, a faded 1980s Willie Nelson tour tee, and silver hoops big enough to catch the sunset, wiping a streak of mango juice off her forearm with the back of her hand. She grins, sharp and warm, and nods him over. He hesitates for three full seconds, then sighs, pushing off the oak tree he’s leaning against to walk across the grass. His work boots are still caked with barn dust, his flannel sleeves rolled up to show forearms crisscrossed with small scratch marks from aluminum siding, grease crusted under his fingernails he hasn’t bothered to scrub off.
“Figured you’d avoid me forever, trailer guy,” she says when he gets close, leaning her hip against the side of the food truck. Her voice is rough, like she smokes a cigar a day, which he later finds out she does. “Heard you don’t talk to anyone who isn’t hauling a rusted 1960s trailer behind their truck.”
He snorts, surprised she knows who he is. “I don’t usually go for frozen sweet stuff. Too much sugar.”
“Lucky for you, I got the unsweetened stuff,” she says, reaching into the cooler behind her. She pulls out a paleta bright red with chili lime, the edge already glistening with melted juice. “Got a shot of reposado tequila frozen right in the core. Town council doesn’t know about that part, so keep your mouth shut.”
She passes it to him, and their fingers brush when he takes it. He feels the thick callus on the pad of her thumb, from squeezing hundreds of lime wedges a day, and a jolt runs up his arm so sharp he almost drops the paleta. He hands her a ten, tells her to keep the change, and they lean against the side of the truck together, a safe foot apart at first, then closer when a group of rowdy teens runs past, almost knocking into him. His shoulder brushes hers, and she doesn’t move away.
A group of the old town council regulars walks past a few minutes later, glowering at both of them. Javi tenses immediately, already planning his excuse to leave, but Lila just lifts her paleta in a mock toast, grinning. “They can kiss my ass,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear. “I haven’t been married to that asshole for three years, they can stop acting like I’m still his property.”
He takes a bite of the paleta, the chili burning his tongue just right, the tequila cold and smooth when he hits the core. He makes a face at the burn, and she laughs, reaching up before she can think better of it to wipe a drop of chili juice off the corner of his mouth with her thumb. He freezes, doesn’t pull away, and for a second they’re only a few inches apart, close enough he can smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, sweet scent of the cigar she smoked before she opened the stand, her hazel eyes flecked with gold from the sunset. He hasn’t felt this unguarded in 12 years, not even close, and the fear of gossip that’s ruled most of his choices for a decade feels stupid, small, next to the way she’s looking at him like she sees more than the quiet guy who hides in his barn all day.
“I’m closing up in 10 minutes,” she says, pulling her hand back slowly, like she doesn’t want to. “Got a half-rotted 1958 Scotty trailer in my backyard I’ve been trying to fix for six months. I’ll pay you in as many paletas as you want and a bottle of 12-year bourbon if you want to come take a look tonight.”
He says yes before he can even talk himself out of it, which shocks him more than it shocks her. He helps her load the empty coolers into the back of her beat up pickup, his arm brushing hers when he lifts the 50-pound ice bin, and she leans into the contact for half a second before stepping back to lock the truck. She climbs into the driver’s seat, rolls down the window, and tosses him a second paleta, this one mango flavored, before he can walk to his own truck.
“Follow me,” she says, winking. “Don’t drive too slow. The bourbon’s already open.”
He gets into his F150, the mango paleta melting a little in his hand, the window rolled down to let the warm summer air blow in, and he pulls out onto the dirt road behind her, not thinking for a second about all the ways this could go wrong.
