Rafe Mendez, 53, has restored 72 vintage campers in the 12 years since his ex-wife packed a duffel and drove off in the 1968 VW bus he’d spent six months fixing up for her. He’s stubborn to a fault, still keeps the crumpled note she left taped to his toolbox as a reminder not to let anyone get close enough to waste his time. He only drives into Boise proper once a week, on rainy Tuesdays when his shop is slow, to grab welding supplies and nurse a bourbon at the dive bar off State Street, the one with the sticky linoleum and the neon Pabst sign that’s been half burnt out since 2019.
This Tuesday, the bar’s half empty when he walks in, rain dripping off the brim of his oilskin hat onto the floor. The only open stool is wedged next to Lena, the woman who moved into the rotting cottage half a mile down the road from his shop three weeks prior. He’d waved her off once a few days before, when she’d flagged him down while he was hauling a rusted 1972 Airstream back to the shop, too preoccupied with the hole in the frame he’d spotted on the test drive to stop and chat. He’d felt guilty about it later, but had written it off as not worth the effort. He hesitates for ten seconds, then sits.
She smells like cedar and vanilla shampoo, not the cloying rose perfume his ex wore that used to make his eyes water. She glances over, smirks, and taps the edge of her bourbon glass against his. “You’re the guy who pretended he didn’t see me waving last week.” Her voice is low, rough from decades of smoking menthols, and her gray flannel has a faint coffee stain on the cuff. He mumbles an apology, explains he was stressed about the Airstream’s frame rust, and she snorts, says she knows exactly what that’s like, spends half her time patching holes in the roof of the old bookmobile she drives across the Pacific Northwest selling banned YA novels.
They talk for an hour, rain lashing the tin roof so loud they have to lean in to hear each other, their elbows brushing every time one of them reaches for their drink. When he shifts to pull his wallet out to pay for a round, his knee knocks hers under the bar. She doesn’t move it away. She holds his gaze when she talks about the parents who yell at her for selling books with queer protagonists, her pupils dark and wide, the pink neon from the sign bleeding across her cheekbones. Rafe’s chest feels tight, half from the way she’s looking at him, half from the familiar, sharp voice in his head telling him to leave now before he gets attached.
When he stands to go, she sighs and says her old Ford truck won’t start, the battery died an hour before, and asks if he can give her a ride. He agrees without thinking. They drive to her cottage first, but she pauses before getting out, says she left a dog-eared copy of Mary Oliver’s poetry at his shop when she stopped by two weeks prior, left a note under his door asking if he wanted to get a drink sometime. He remembers the note, remembers crumpling it up and shoving it in his work boot because he was scared she’d want something from him, that she’d leave like everyone else. He tells her he has it, they can swing by the shop to grab the book.
The shop smells like welding fumes and citrus wood wax when they walk in, string lights strung across the rafters glowing soft gold against the Airstream’s polished aluminum shell. She runs her hand along the curved paneling of the camper, her fingers brushing the fresh wax he’d applied that morning, and says she’s always wanted to sleep in one of these. He leads her up the steps, the screen door creaking behind them, and turns on the small table lamp inside. The couch is draped in plaid wool he found at a thrift store, the vintage turntable in the corner has a Johnny Cash record already on the platter.
She sits on the couch, pats the spot next to her, and he sits, their shoulders pressing tight together through their flannel shirts. She says she knows he’s been avoiding her, that she likes that he doesn’t talk just to fill silence, that most guys her age won’t shut up about their stock portfolios or their lawns. He leans in before he can talk himself out of it, kisses her, the taste of bourbon and peppermint gum on her lips. She kisses back, her hand resting on his jaw, and he can feel the callus on her thumb from hauling boxes of books up and down the steps of her bookmobile.
They listen to the whole record, talking slow between kisses, until the rain lets up just after 2 a.m. He drives her back to her cottage, and she leans over the center console to kiss him again before she gets out, asks him to come over for meatloaf and mashed potatoes the next night. He says yes. He pulls out of her driveway, rain tapping softly against the windshield, and grins so wide his cheeks ache, for the first time in 12 years not dreading the sound of his phone ringing the next morning.
