Manny Rocha is 52, makes his living sanding rust off 1970s Volkswagen Westfalias and swapping out busted engines for high-efficiency models that can cross the Rockies without sputtering. He’s got a scar across his left knuckle from a 2019 engine fire, a rescue beagle named Bolt who naps on the front seat of his work truck, and a hard rule he hasn’t broken in 8 years: no dates with anyone connected to his ex-wife’s side of the family. The rule was born the day she drove off with the first custom Westfalia he ever built, in the passenger seat of a real estate broker who’d commissioned the build as a surprise for his own wife.
The farmers market on the edge of Silverton, Oregon, is the last place he expects to test that rule. He’s set up a folding table off the gravel path, selling custom van decals and hand-stamped keychains to cover the cost of the booth, mostly scouting for leads on old vans people have rotting in their backyards. It’s 82 degrees, the air smells like cut grass and grilled corn from the food stand two booths over, and Bolt is curled under the table snoring loud enough to compete with the bluegrass trio playing by the picnic tables.
He’s halfway through explaining the difference between a 1972 and 1973 Westfalia pop top hinge to a retired teacher when he sees her. Lila Marquez, his ex-wife’s youngest cousin, leaning against the frame of his display van, sipping a peach seltzer in a neon pink can, grinning like she knows she’s not supposed to be there. He’d last seen her at his wedding, 12 years prior, when she was 26 and sneaking shots of tequila out of a flask under the reception table, yelling at him for dancing too dorky with her cousin.
She pushes off the van when he wraps up the conversation with the teacher, sauntering over to his table. Her boots are scuffed work boots same as his, her denim cutoffs have frayed edges, and there’s a constellation of freckles across her nose he doesn’t remember from back then. She leans in over the table to grab a keychain shaped like a VW logo, and her forearm brushes his. He can smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, sweet scent of the peaches she’d probably just bought from the fruit stand down the row.
“Still spend all your time covered in rust, Manny?” she teases, holding the keychain up to the sun. Her nails are chipped with dark green polish, and there’s a tiny tattoo of a camper van on her wrist he can just make out under the edge of her flannel shirt tied around her waist.
He snorts, leaning back in his folding chair, crossing his arms to put a little space between them. He knows better. His ex would raise holy hell if she found out he was even talking to Lila, the whole extended family would take sides, half the town would be gossiping by the end of the week. “Still spend all your time causing trouble?”
She laughs, loud and bright, cutting through the hum of the market crowd. She rounds the table, nodding at Bolt who’s woken up and is wagging his tail so hard his whole body wiggles. “I’m in town for my sister’s wedding. Saw your name on the vendor list when I was looking for food trucks. Figured I’d stop by, see if you were still as grumpy as you were when my cousin made you come to our family Christmas in 2018.”
He flinches a little at the mention of his ex, but Lila doesn’t seem to notice, already bending down to scratch Bolt behind the ears. He watches the way her hair falls over her shoulder, copper highlights catching the sun, and suddenly he’s hyper aware of the sweat beading at the back of his neck, the rough fabric of his work shirt rubbing against his shoulders.
He stands up, jerking his head toward the display van parked 20 feet away. “I just finished a full restore on that 1971 Westfalia. Built in coffee bar, solar panels, enough storage for a month long road trip. Wanna see?” He doesn’t know why he offered. He never offers to show off builds to people who aren’t paying customers.
She nods, standing up, and when they walk over to the van, her shoulder brushes his every other step. Neither of them moves away. The grass crunches under their boots, the bluegrass band is playing a cover of a Johnny Cash song he hasn’t heard since college, and when he yanks the sliding van door open, the cool air from the built in AC hits them both, making her shiver a little.
She leans in first, stepping up into the van to run her hand over the hand-laid tile backsplash behind the coffee bar. He follows her in, and when she turns to ask him about the tile, her shoulder presses firm against his chest. They stay that way for three full seconds, no space between them, her eyes locked on his, and he can feel the heat radiating off her skin, the faint fizz of her seltzer can in her hand pressing against his hip.
“I’ve had a crush on you since I was 28,” she says, soft enough that only he can hear it, no teasing in her voice now. “You were married, so I never said anything. I don’t care what my cousin thinks. I don’t care what the family says. I’ve been thinking about that dumb grumpy smile of yours for 10 years.”
His first instinct is to say no. To tell her it’s too messy, too much drama, that he doesn’t do complicated anymore. But then she smiles, a little shy, and he sees the smudge of tamale sauce on her chin from the sample she grabbed at the Mexican food stand on the way over, her hand is resting light on his forearm, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt, and he realizes he hasn’t felt this light, this curious, this alive, since the day his ex drove away with his van.
The market wraps up an hour later. He packs up his table, loads Bolt into the front of his work truck, and drives three blocks down to the taco truck parked by the river. They sit on the tailgate, eating carnitas and al pastor tacos, she steals a bite of his taco when he’s not looking, and he wipes the smudge of sauce off her chin with his thumb. She leans into the touch, her hand coming up to rest over his on her jaw.
Somewhere down the road, a fire truck siren wails, and Manny can’t remember the last time he didn’t care who was watching.
