Javi Mendez, 52, makes his living restoring vintage camper vans out of a cinder block shop behind his house in east Texas, and hasn’t willingly attended a town community event in the eight years since his wife packed a suitcase and drove to Austin without a note. His only flaw, if you ask his only remaining high school buddy, is that he’s too stubborn to admit he’s lonely. He only showed up to the annual summer chili cookoff because that same buddy threatened to dump a bucket of transmission fluid on his prized 1972 Westfalia if he bailed.
He brought a batch of brisket chili smoked for 12 hours over oak, dropped it off at the judging table, grabbed a cold Lone Star from the beer tent, and leaned against a gnarled pine at the edge of the park, fully planning to sneak out before the winners were announced. The air smelled like charcoal, cumin, and the cheap coconut tiki torches the parks department set up every year, and a cover band in the corner fumbled through a Johnny Cash deep cut. He was just about to push off the tree when he spotted her.
Lena, his new next door neighbor, had moved into the yellow ranch three months prior, and he’d only exchanged half-hearted waves with her from his driveway, usually when he was covered in grease and she was carrying armfuls of construction paper for her elementary school art classes. She was wearing a faded Willie Nelson cutoff tee, frayed denim cutoffs, and scuffed cowboy boots she’d clearly kicked off and slipped back on barefoot, and there was a smudge of cobalt blue paint under her left nail that he’d noticed the last time she’d waved. She was laughing at some retired ranch hand’s terrible joke, tipping her head back so her sun-streaked brown hair fell over her shoulder, and when she glanced over and caught him staring, she didn’t look away.
She weaved through the crowd of folding chairs and coolers to get to him, and when she stopped a foot away, he caught the scent of coconut shampoo and the faint, sharp tang of menthol cigarette, the same brand he’d smoked for 20 years before his ex made him quit. “You’re the guy who fixes the old campers, right?” she said, leaning in a little so he could hear her over the band. Her forearm brushed his as she shifted her weight, and he felt a jolt go up his spine that he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager asking a girl to prom. He mumbled something in confirmation, and she grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I saw that Westfalia in your shop last week. I’ve been begging for one since I was 16. You gonna let me see it sometime?”
He was just about to answer when a drunk kid in a Texas A&M hoodie barrelled past, slamming into her shoulder. She stumbled forward, and he caught her by the waist, his calloused hand wrapping around the warm, soft skin just above the waistband of her shorts. Her palm pressed flat against his bicep to steady herself, and their faces were six inches apart for three full seconds, her dark eyes locked on his. “Sorry ‘bout that,” she said, smirking like she didn’t mind all that much. “Didn’t mean to invade your hermit space.” He opened his mouth to say it was fine, that he didn’t mind, but the announcer blared his name over the speakers, saying he’d won first place in the chili contest. The crowd around him cheered, and he felt his face heat up, looking back at her to see her clapping, winking like she knew he’d win before he did.
After he’d accepted the silly $50 gift card to the feed store and turned down three separate invitations to hang out with groups of people he hadn’t spoken to since high school, he walked toward his beat up Ford F-150, planning to go home, crack another beer, and pretend the whole interaction never happened, until he heard her voice behind him. “I made pecan pie,” she said, holding up a Tupperware in one hand and her car keys in the other. “Figured we could split it, and you could show me that Westfalia. If you want.”
He hesitated for half a second, already hearing the town gossip in his head: the hermit camper guy and the new widowed art teacher, sneaking around. But then he looked at the paint smudge on her nail, the way she was biting her lip like she was nervous he’d say no, and he nodded. She followed him back to his place, and when he unlocked the shop door, the string lights he’d hung above the Westfalia flickered on, casting golden light over the restored wood paneling and the custom wool seat covers he’d spent three months sewing himself. She walked around the van slowly, running her fingertips over the glossy blue paint job, and when she turned back to him, she was smiling soft. “I’ve been working up the nerve to ask you out since I saw you out in the driveway two weeks ago, covered in grease, singing old Merle Haggard to yourself,” she said, stepping closer so the toe of her boot kicked his. “Heard you don’t like people much.”
He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he hadn’t heard come out of his mouth in years. “I thought I didn’t,” he said. “Turns out I just didn’t like the people I was hanging around with.” She lifted her hand, brushing a smudge of dried transmission fluid off the front of his flannel shirt, and he leaned down to kiss her, slow, tasting the root beer she’d been drinking and the faint sweetness of the pecan pie she’d snuck a bite of on the drive over. Her hand tangled in the curly gray hair at the nape of his neck, and he pulled her closer, his hand back on her waist like it belonged there.
When they pulled back, she nodded toward the back of the Westfalia, where he’d built a custom queen sized bed lined with flannel sheets, and held up a small overnight bag she’d slung over her shoulder that he hadn’t noticed before. He grinned, unlocking the van’s side sliding door, and held out his hand for her to take.
