Javi Mendez, 53, vintage camper restorer, is at the Ada County summer beer festival only because his shop hand won the ticket in a raffle and gave it to him, said he needed to get out of the barn before he started talking to the rusted generator he’s been trying to fix for three weeks. He’s leaning against the side of the taco truck, sweat beading at his hairline under his worn straw cowboy hat, holding a sticky condensation-slicked hazy IPA that tastes like citrus and pine, ignoring texts from his buddies asking if he’s talked to any women yet. He’d told them three months ago he was done even looking, that dating in your 50s is just a series of awkward coffee dates where you compare joint pain and ex horror stories, and he had no interest.
He spots her 20 feet away, standing next to her husband, the new county commissioner who’d rammed through zoning ordinances that would force Javi to either move his shop out of the barn he’s owned for 15 years or pay $40,000 in renovations to meet new commercial code. He’d yelled at the guy for three straight minutes at the public hearing last month, called him a carpetbagger who’d never worked a day with his hands in his life, got escorted out by security. She’s wearing a loose linen dress and scuffed white sneakers, picking at the label on her lime seltzer, rolling her eyes every time her husband claps a local business owner on the back and laughs too loud at a bad joke. She catches him staring, holds his gaze for three full seconds, then smirks, like she knows exactly who he is and what he thinks of her husband.
She excuses herself from the group five minutes later, walks straight to the taco truck, stands so close their elbows brush when she reaches for a stack of napkins, the rough callus on the side of her arm scraping his, like she works with her hands too, not just goes to charity galas and political fundraisers. She says his name first, says she remembered him from the hearing, that he was the only person all night who didn’t kiss her husband’s ass. Javi tenses up, half ready to snap at her, but then he catches the scent of coconut sunscreen and lime off her skin, notices the chipped navy nail polish on her fingers, the faint scar across her left eyebrow, and the words die in his throat. She orders a carnitas taco, pays with cash, leans against the truck next to him while she eats, says her husband has been insufferable since he won the election, that he’s forgotten every person who grew up here in favor of the out-of-state developers who funded his campaign.
Javi finds himself laughing when she mimics her husband’s stiff politician handshake, the deep fake friendly voice he uses for voters. He hasn’t laughed that easy with a woman in 8 years, not since his ex wife packed her bags and left, saying she was tired of living in a house that smelled like fiberglass resin and diesel. They talk for 12 minutes, he counts, her shoulder brushing his every time a group of people walks past, her knee knocking into his once when she leans in to ask about the 1968 VW Westfalia he has parked on a trailer by the festival entrance. He explains he’s restoring it for a client in Portland, rants for a minute about how hard it is to find original factory door seals, and she doesn’t cut him off, doesn’t look bored, just nods, asks follow up questions like she actually cares.
Her husband calls her name from across the fairground, waving her over to meet a group of campaign donors. She leans in close, her lips so close to his ear he can feel her warm breath on his neck, and says she inherited a 1972 Airstream from her dad three years ago, her husband doesn’t know she’s been hiding it in a storage unit on the edge of town, wants Javi to restore it. She slips a crumpled piece of paper with her cell number on it into the pocket of his flannel shirt, her fingers brushing his chest when she does, says she’ll swing by his shop Tuesday at 2, don’t tell anyone, especially not her husband. Javi nods, can’t find the words to answer, just watches her walk away, her dress fluttering in the warm summer breeze, she glances over her shoulder twice before she reaches her husband’s side.
He leaves the festival 20 minutes later, drives straight back to his barn, spends the next two hours cleaning off the workbench that’s been stacked with spare engine parts and rusted camper hinges for six months. He puts a six pack of lime seltzer in the mini fridge by the front door, turns the Tejano radio he listens to while he works down low. He pulls the crumpled piece of paper out of his flannel pocket when he’s done, runs his thumb over the smudged ink of her phone number, and tacks it to the corkboard above his workbench, right next to the faded photo of his dad teaching him to fix his first truck when he was 16.
Tuesday rolls around hot and dry, the sun beating down so hard the asphalt at the end of his drive softens under his boots when he goes out to check the mail at 1:45. He hears the rumble of a truck 10 minutes later, looks up to see a beat up silver Ford F150, not the fancy black Escalade her husband drives everywhere, turn up his drive, dust billowing behind it. She rolls down the window when she pulls to a stop next to the Westfalia, grinning, holding up a crumpled paper grocery bag with a half empty bottle of wood stain sticking out the top and a tupperware of what looks like chocolate chip cookies.
