Javi Ruiz, 53, makes his living sanding rust off 1970s motorcycle frames and tuning carburetors so finicky they’ll only purr for someone who knows how to talk to them. For four years, since his ex packed up her pottery wheel and moved to Portland, he’s avoided every small-town event in Silverton, Oregon, like they hand out free root canals at the door. His flaw? He’s convinced he’s better off alone: no drama, no one asking him to talk about his feelings, no side-eye from neighbors who still whisper about how his wife left him for a guy who wears boat shoes to dinner. The only reason he showed up to the fire department’s annual chili cookoff was because his buddy, the fire chief, begged him to donate a custom-painted helmet as the grand raffle prize, and Javi owed him a favor for patching up his shop roof after last winter’s ice storm.
He planned to drop the helmet off and bolt, no small talk, no awkward “how’ve you been” questions from people he’d gone to high school with. He was halfway back to his beat-up F150 when a kid darted in front of him, he swerved, and the canvas bag slung over his shoulder knocked a paper plate of chili right out of the hands of the woman standing by the drink table. Most of it splattered on the grass, but a dollop of greasy red sauce landed on the cuff of her pale linen shirt, and a tiny spot burned the side of her wrist. Javi froze, ready for the annoyed huff, the lecture about watching where he was going, the gossip that would spread by sundown that the grumpy bike guy had ruined the new librarian’s afternoon.
Instead, she laughed. It was a rough, warm sound, like she smoked a pack a day in college and never quite shook the gravel in her throat. “Good riddance, honestly,” she said, wiping the back of her hand on her jeans. “That stuff was so bland I was gonna pour half the hot sauce bottle in it anyway.” Javi fumbled for the stack of napkins in his pocket, held one out, and when she reached for it their fingers brushed. Her skin was cool, calloused at the fingertips, and she smelled like pine soap and the cherry hard candies the library keeps in a bowl by the front desk. He’d seen her around town before, the new part-time librarian who’d moved to Silverton six months prior, but he’d never gotten this close. He could see the thin silver streaks threading through her dark, wavy hair, the tiny smudge of ink on her thumb from stamping library books, the faint scar across her left eyebrow.
He’d also heard the gossip. She was the ex-wife of the new county sheriff, who’d moved to town three months before her, and everyone assumed she’d followed him to start drama. No one talked to her for longer than 30 seconds, scared the sheriff would pull them over for a broken taillight the next time they drove out of town. Javi’s first instinct was to apologize again and bolt, no risk, no hassle, back to his quiet shop where the only company he had was his old hound dog and a radio playing 70s rock. But then she shifted her weight, and he caught a glimpse of a tiny, faded motorcycle tattoo on her ankle, peeking out from under the hem of her flowy cotton maxi dress.
“You ride?” he asked, before he could think better of it. She grinned, leaning in a little closer, close enough that he could feel the heat off her shoulder when she nodded. “1978 CB750, had it for 20 years. Sold it before I moved here, thought I’d be spending all my time reshelving books and not tearing up back roads.” Javi’s chest felt light, like it hadn’t in years. He pulled a cold can of root beer out of the cooler next to them, pressed it to the faint red burn on her wrist, and their fingers brushed again, longer this time. She didn’t pull away. She held his eye contact, steady, no awkward looking away, and he could see the sheriff out of the corner of his eye, standing by the chili pots, staring daggers at them.
That’s when the fight hit him, sharp and clear. He could walk away right now, go back to his shop, eat a frozen burrito for dinner, watch old westerns alone, no drama, no risk, no one to disappoint him. Or he could stop being a coward, stop hiding from every little thing that might make him feel something again. He leaned in, voice low enough that only she could hear it, ignoring the sheriff’s stare burning into the side of his head. “I got a half-restored 1978 CB750 in my shop right now. Runs like a dream, but it needs a test rider who knows what she’s doing. Would’ve asked you earlier, but everyone around here’s scared to breathe in your direction, let alone talk to you.”
She laughed again, that same gravelly warm sound, and this time she intentionally rested her hand on his forearm, her calloused fingers pressing lightly through the thin cotton of his work shirt. “Everyone’s a bunch of cowards. I’ve been wanting to ask you about that row of bikes behind your shop for months. Was scared you’d yell at me for trespassing.” Javi shook his head, grinning, and picked up her abandoned canvas bag off the grass, slinging it over his shoulder next to his own. The sky had turned dark, fat raindrops starting to splatter on the pavement, and the cookout crowd was starting to pack up. He glanced over at the sheriff, who was now pretending to be deep in conversation with the fire chief, pointedly not looking at them.
He walked her to his truck, held the passenger door open for her, and she climbed in, tapping her booted foot against the dash when he turned the key and Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” blared out of the beat-up speakers. He pulled out of the parking lot, turned onto the dirt back road that leads to his shop, and rested his hand on the center console, half an inch from hers.
