Ronen Voss, 53, has restored 72 vintage camper vans out of his converted barn shop outside Boise in the 12 years since his ex-wife left him for a commercial real estate agent who wore custom cowboy boots and quoted Ayn Rand at dinner parties. His biggest flaw is that he’s written off every woman within 100 miles as either a friend of his ex’s, or someone looking for a free van repair and a place to crash for a few months. He only leaves the shop twice a month, to sell custom wooden cup holders and fold-out cutting boards at regional farmers markets and street fairs, and even then he brings his hound dog Mabel for backup, to give him an excuse to cut conversations short if he gets uncomfortable.
The August street fair in downtown Meridian is 91 degrees, the asphalt smelling like melted tar and cherry snow cone syrup that’s dripped off a hundred kids’ paper cones and baked into the cracks. He’s set up his booth next to a woman selling beeswax candles, and when he first looks up from restocking his display, he recognizes her before she says a word. It’s Lila, his ex-wife’s younger sister, the girl who used to hang around his garage when she was 17, wearing too much black eyeliner and asking dumb questions about engine parts so she could stay out of her mom’s house for a few extra hours. She’s 47 now, her dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, wearing cutoff jeans and a faded Tom Petty tank top, the strap slipping down her sun-kissed left shoulder. She leans across the metal barrier between their booths, the scent of coconut sunscreen and cedar wax wrapping around him before she speaks.
He tries to keep his distance at first, sticking to one-word answers when she asks about his shop, pretending he’s busy rearranging his display even when there’s a 20 minute lull in foot traffic. But every time he glances over, she’s looking at him, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners like she knows he’s full of shit. She brings him a cold lemonade from the food truck down the row when his water runs out, and when they both sit down on their folding chairs during a sudden rush of rain that sends fairgoers running for cover, their knees brush under the shared awning he strung between both their booths. He can feel the heat of her leg through the thin denim of her shorts, and he doesn’t move away.
They talk for the rest of the afternoon, him telling her about the 1968 Winnebago he’s currently restoring for a retired teacher from Seattle, her telling him about the time a bear broke into one of her hives and ate 20 pounds of honey before she could chase it off with a broom. He makes a dumb joke about how camper van plumbing is more unpredictable than a bear with a sweet tooth, and she laughs so hard she snorts, clapping a hand over her mouth like she’s embarrassed. He hasn’t made anyone laugh that hard since before the divorce.
By the time the fair closes at 8, the sky has gone dark purple, and a full thunderstorm hits out of nowhere, rain pouring down so hard it stings the exposed skin on his arms. They rush to pack their boxes into the bed of his pickup, both soaked through, their shirts sticking to their skin, Lila’s hair matted to her neck. When they slide into the cab of the truck, slamming the doors shut against the rain, she turns to him, water dripping off her chin onto the seat between them. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 17, you know,” she says, quiet, like she’s afraid the rain will hear her. “I always thought she was an idiot for leaving you.”
He sits there for a beat, his heart hammering so hard he can hear it over the sound of the rain hitting the roof of the cab. He’s spent 12 years telling himself any kind of romantic connection is more trouble than it’s worth, that hooking up with his ex’s sister is the kind of messy drama he’s spent his whole adult life avoiding. But then he reaches out, tucks a wet strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek, and she leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering shut for half a second.
He drives her back to his barn, the rain slowing to a soft drizzle by the time he pulls into the gravel driveway. Mabel greets them at the door, wagging her whole body, and Lila kneels down to scratch her behind the ears, laughing when Mabel licks her cheek. Ronen grabs two cold beers from the fridge, twists the caps off, and hands one to her, their fingers locking around the frosted glass neck for three full beats before he lets go.
