Elio Marquez, 53, has spent the last eight years turning wrenches on vintage motorcycles in his converted West Asheville garage, and avoiding any neighborhood event that involves more than three people and a cooler of beer. His personality flaw, as his best friend Ron loves to point out, is that he’d rather sand rust off a 1972 Triumph Bonneville for 12 hours straight than make small talk with someone who doesn’t know the difference between a carburetor and a camshaft. He only showed up to the annual fall beer festival because Ron promised him a case of hard-to-find hazy IPA if he stayed the full two hours, no early exits.
The air smells like roasted peanuts, wood smoke, and piney hops, the bluegrass band on the outdoor stage thrumming so loud his boots vibrate against the packed dirt. He’s leaned up against a split-rail fence, half-empty IPA in one hand, checking his watch every two minutes, when a shadow falls across his line of sight. He looks up, and for half a second he thinks he’s hallucinating. It’s Lila, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the girl he’d only seen a handful of times at family holidays before the divorce, the one who’d once spilled a full glass of cherry Kool-Aid on his brand new leather jacket at Thanksgiving 2017. She just moved back to town three months prior to open a tropical plant shop, he’d seen the hand-painted sign go up on the main street, but he’d never had the nerve to stop in, convinced any interaction with his ex’s family would end in awkwardness at best, drama at worst.
She’s wearing a faded flannel tied around her waist, cutoff denim shorts, and scuffed work boots, a smudge of potting soil still dark on the edge of her jaw. She stops so close his shoulder brushes hers when she shifts her weight, the scent of cedar and citrus perfume mixing with the citrusy beer in her plastic cup, and he has to fight the urge to lean in closer. “Elio Marquez,” she yells over the band, grinning so wide the corners of her eyes crinkle, “I thought Ron was lying when he said you’d actually show up to something that isn’t a motorcycle swap meet.” She holds out a warm soft pretzel she grabbed from a food cart, and when he takes it, their fingers brush for half a second, calloused from her repotting plants all morning brushing against his calloused from turning wrenches, and a jolt runs up his arm so sharp he almost drops his beer. He pulls his hand back fast, heat rising up his neck, guilty for even noticing how pretty she is, how her laugh cuts through the noise of the crowd like a bell.
They talk over the band, her leaning in closer every time the fiddle picks up, her hair brushing his cheek when she tilts her head to hear him talk about the CB750 he’s restoring for a client down in Georgia. She teases him about still wearing that same scuffed leather jacket she spilled Kool-Aid on, he teases her about still getting food stains on her shirt—there’s a smudge of mustard on the front of her white tee, right above the pocket. He fights the pull of it the whole time, the little voice in his head yelling that this is wrong, that everyone who knows them will talk, that his ex will throw a fit if she finds out they’re even talking, that he’s been closed off for eight years for a reason, that letting someone in will only end with him alone again, wrenching on bikes at 2 a.m. to numb the hurt. But when she tilts her head up to look at him, her dark eyes bright under the string lights strung above the fence, he can’t remember why he ever thought avoiding people was easier than this.
The band takes a break, the roar of the crowd softening a little, and she leans in so close her breath is warm on his ear, no yelling needed now. “I drove past your shop four times last week,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear, “I was too scared to stop. I thought you’d hate anyone connected to Mia, even me.” He blinks, surprised, because he’d driven past her plant shop three times that same week, too scared to stop for the exact same reason. “I was scared you’d think I was just here to start drama,” he admits, and she laughs, soft, and reaches for his hand, no accidental brush this time, lacing her fingers through his, her palm warm against his. “Drama’s over,” she says. “Mia lives in Portland now. She hasn’t asked about you in five years. No one cares but us.”
The little voice in his head goes quiet, all the resistance melting away like rust under a wire brush. He forgets about the two hour timer, forgets about the case of IPA Ron promised him, forgets about the half-finished restoration sitting on the lift in his shop. When she tilts her head toward the exit, raising an eyebrow, he nods, no hesitation. They walk out of the festival grounds together, their hands still laced, ignoring the few double takes from neighbors who recognize them. He mentions he has a bottle of 12-year bourbon stashed under his workbench, no mixers, just straight, and she grins, squeezing his hand. “I love straight bourbon,” she says.
The cool fall air nips at his cheeks as they turn down the alley leading to his garage, and for the first time in eight years, he’s not in a hurry to get anywhere fast.
