Rafe Ortega, 54, had spent the last three years turning down every social invite within a 20 mile radius of his vintage outboard motor shop outside Tampa. It wasn’t that he hated people. He’d just learned the hard way that small town gossip sticks harder than barnacle grime on a 1970s hull. A misplaced beer run with a separated woman three years prior had earned him a reputation as the homewrecker of Hillsborough County, even though the woman had filed for divorce six months before they’d shared a single drink. His ex wife had moved to Oregon eight years prior with a travel nurse she’d met at a physical therapy appointment, and Rafe had long since settled into a quiet routine: restore motors, feed the three feral cats that hung around his shop lot, heat up a frozen burrito for dinner, fall asleep to old baseball games on the radio.
He’d only shown up to the fire department chili cookoff because the chief had helped him haul a 300 pound Johnson motor off a wrecked fishing boat the month prior, and he owed him a favor. The string lights strung above the pavilion cast soft gold over folding tables stacked with red solo cups and crockpots, and old George Strait tracks hummed low over crackling speakers. The air smelled like chili powder, burnt hot dogs, and the faint briny tang of the bay two blocks over. He was halfway through a plate of spicier-than-expected venison chili when a woman stumbled into him, her elbow knocking the last bite of cornbread off his plate and onto the dirt.
She turned fast, apology already on her lips, and Rafe recognized her immediately: Clara Bennett, the new pastor’s wife, moved to town three months prior, lived two houses down from his bungalow. She was wearing a faded red flannel tied at the waist, jeans cuffed at the ankle, work boots caked in mud from her garden. A smudge of chili powder streaked the left side of her jaw. She smelled like vanilla extract and pine cleaner, the same scent that drifted over his fence every Saturday morning when she was out trimming her rose bushes. She grabbed a handful of napkins from the table beside them, and her hand brushed his wrist when she passed them over, warm and calloused. “I am so sorry,” she said, grinning, and he noticed her hazel eyes had flecks of gold around the pupils. “The guy behind me stepped on my boot and I went flying.”
Rafe grunted a dismissal, already planning to slip out early. He knew better than to talk to the pastor’s wife. The last thing he needed was another round of gossip circling the diner counters. But 10 minutes later, a sharp drizzle turned into a full on downpour, and everyone crowded under the pavilion to stay dry, pressing shoulder to shoulder. Rafe ended up smashed next to Clara, their arms pressed together from shoulder to elbow, the heat of her body seeping through his thin work shirt. He could feel her shift when she laughed at something her friend said, her hip bumping his, and he froze, like he’d touched a live wire.
“Hey,” she said, leaning in so she could be heard over the rain hammering the pavilion roof. “I’ve been meaning to stop by your shop. My dad left me his 1968 Evinrude when he passed, and I can’t get anyone to work on it. Everyone says you’re the only guy within 100 miles who knows his way around motors that old.”
Rafe’s first instinct was to say he was booked six months out, that he didn’t take on new clients unless they were referred by someone he trusted. But she was looking up at him, her head tilted, rain droplets glistening in the ends of her hair, and the words died in his throat. “Bring it by anytime,” he said, before he could think better of it.
They talked for 20 minutes, pressed tight together as the rain kept coming. She told him her husband spent 12 hours a day at the church, that he’d forgotten their anniversary two months prior, that she’d eaten dinner alone more nights than not since they moved to town. He told her about the feral cats, about the 1957 Mercury motor he was restoring for a retired commercial fisherman, about the time he’d dropped a 200 pound motor on his foot and had to drive himself to the ER with his boot full of blood. When she laughed at the story, she rested her hand on his bicep, her fingers curling slightly around the muscle, and he didn’t pull away. He’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone look at him like he was interesting, not just the town pariah.
The power cut out suddenly, the string lights going dark, and everyone yelled in surprise. Clara leaned in even closer, her mouth almost touching his ear, her breath warm against his neck. “I snuck a bottle of bourbon in my truck,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear. “It’s parked down the street. Wanna get out of here?”
Rafe hesitated for half a second, his brain flashing to the gossip, the stares at the diner, the way the old ladies at the grocery store crossed the street to avoid him. But then he looked at her, the chili smudge still on her jaw, her eyes bright in the dark, and he nodded.
They snuck out the back of the pavilion, no one paying them any mind, and jogged through the rain to her beat up Ford F150. She cranked the heat when they got inside, and handed him the bottle of bourbon from the center console. Their fingers brushed when he took it, and this time he held on, his thumb brushing the back of her hand, for three slow beats.
“I know what everyone says about you,” she said, twisting the cap off the bottle. “But I see you. The way you carry Mrs. Henderson’s groceries to her car every Sunday. The way you leave food out for those cats even when they hiss at you. You’re not the guy they make you out to be.”
Rafe felt something tight in his chest loosen, like a rusted bolt finally giving way. He reached over, slow, like he was approaching a skittish stray, and wiped the chili smudge off her jaw with the pad of his thumb. She didn’t pull away. She tilted her face up, her lips parted, and when she kissed him, he tasted bourbon and the cherry lollipop she’d been sucking on earlier, and he didn’t care who saw them.
