Marlon Rojas, 57, has restored 72 vintage camper vans out of his cinder block shop outside Asheville since his divorce 8 years ago, and he’s got the scarred knuckles and permanent grease under his fingernails to prove it. His biggest pet peeve for the last six months has been his new next door neighbor, Lena, who called the city on him back in April when he left three rusted VW fenders and a stack of old tent poles stacked on his curb for three weeks. He’d yelled across the yard at her that she was the kind of person who sucked all the fun out of small town life, she’d yelled back that he was the kind of slob who brought down property values for everyone on the block, and they hadn’t said two words to each other since. He’d avoided her at the community pool, skipped the neighborhood block party in July, and made a point of pulling his truck into his garage before she got home from her used bookstore downtown most nights.
He’d only dragged himself to the town’s annual fall chili cookoff because his shop apprentice had entered a venison chili and begged him to come taste it, and the kid had a point—his chili was good, spicy enough to make Marlon’s eyes water a little, just how he liked it. He was holding a paper bowl of the stuff, stepping back to avoid a kid darting past with a face covered in cotton candy, when his shoulder collided with something soft. A drop of bright red chili splattered right on the chest of a cream cable knit sweater, and when he looked up, it was Lena. Her hair was pulled back in a messy braid, she had on scuffed brown leather boots, and for the first time he’d ever seen, she wasn’t scowling. She just looked amused, one eyebrow raised, as he sputtered an apology, grabbing a crumpled napkin from his flannel pocket.
He leaned in without thinking, dabbing at the spot on her sweater before he realized how close he was, his face inches from hers, the smell of her jasmine perfume mixing with the wood smoke and cinnamon roasted nuts drifting from the food tents. His knuckle brushed the soft skin of her collarbone when he pressed the napkin down, and he felt her shiver a little, her shoulders tensing for half a second before she relaxed. He pulled back fast, face hot, but she didn’t step away. Their eyes locked for three full beats, and he noticed flecks of gold in her hazel irises that he’d never caught when she was yelling at him from her porch. The bluegrass band playing 50 feet away switched to a slow, twangy cover of a Johnny Cash song he’d loved back when he was a kid.
“Look, I’ll pay to get the sweater cleaned,” he said, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets, already kicking himself for being an idiot. “Or buy you a new one. Whatever you want.” She laughed, a low, throaty sound he’d never heard before, and shook her head. “It’s thrifted, don’t worry about it. Buy me a spiced cider from the drink tent instead and we’ll call it even.” He nodded, following her across the grass, the crunch of fallen oak leaves under their boots loud enough to cover the awkward silence for the first 10 steps. They bickered at first, him teasing her about being a snitch for calling the city, her teasing him about being a hoarder who kept more van parts on his lawn than furniture in his house, until she sighed, leaning against the side of the drink tent while they waited for their orders. “I was having a garbage day that day,” she said, not looking at him. “My mom had just been admitted to the ER for a fall, and I pulled up to your stack of fenders blocking the driveway and lost my mind. I shouldn’t have called the city. I should’ve just knocked.” He stared at her, the smartass retort he had ready dying in his throat. “I should’ve hauled the parts away the day I pulled them out of the shop,” he said. “I was being a jackass on purpose, just to be stubborn. Sorry.”
They took their ciders over to the hay bale seating off to the side of the stage, and when she sat down, her thigh pressed right up against his through their jeans. She didn’t move away. He could feel the warmth of her leg through the worn denim, and he found himself leaning in a little every time she talked, like he didn’t want to miss a word over the music. She told him about her bookstore, how she specialized in old western paperbacks and hiking guides, how she’d grown up in Florida and still missed the beach sometimes, even after 12 years in the mountains. He told her about the 1972 Westfalia he was restoring for a retired teacher from Chicago, how he’d driven a van just like it cross country when he was 22, how he still had a photo of himself and his old dog sitting on the roof of it taped to his toolbox. When a gust of wind blew a maple leaf into his hair, she reached up without thinking, brushing it out with her fingers, her palm grazing his cheek for half a second. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, for the first time in 8 years letting someone he wasn’t related to get that close without putting up a wall. That old, familiar tingle of desire hummed low in his chest, mixed with the kind of giddy nerves he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager asking a girl to prom. He’d spent so long convincing himself that all new connections were just going to end in hurt, that being alone was easier, that he didn’t need anyone else messing up his neat little routine of work and beer and Sunday football. Sitting there next to her, the sweet taste of spiced cider on his tongue, he realized how stupid that had been.
When the band finished their set and the crowd started to thin out, he walked her to her beat up 1998 Ford pickup parked two blocks over. He stopped at the driver’s side door, shoving his hands in his pockets again, half scared to ask what he wanted to ask, until she leaned against the door, grinning like she already knew what he was going to say. “I’m finishing up that Westfalia tomorrow,” he said, nodding back toward the direction of his shop. “You wanna come by around 10? I’ll show you around, and I got a spare set of new spark plugs I’ve been meaning to give you for that truck of yours. Heard it sputtering down the road last week.” She pulled a crumpled napkin out of her jacket pocket, scribbled her cell phone number on it, and handed it to him. He noticed it was branded with her bookstore’s logo, a line of Mary Oliver poetry printed in small font across the bottom. “I’ll bring coffee,” she said, climbing into the driver’s seat and rolling down the window. “Extra cream, no sugar, right? I saw you order it that way at the gas station last month.” He stood there until her taillights disappeared around the curve of Main Street, the napkin warm against his chest where he’d tucked it into his flannel pocket, and for the first time in years, he didn’t dread waking up early the next day.
