Javier Mendez, 57, has restored 117 vintage campers in the 22 years he’s run his repair lot on the edge of East Austin, but he’s never once enjoyed the neighborhood’s annual fall block party. He only showed up this year because his niece, who’s crashing on his couch while she finishes her nursing prereqs, threatened to hide all his specialty sanding blocks if he bailed again. He’s leaning against the side of the taco truck, sipping a lukewarm Modelo, ignoring the retirees from down the street who keep waving him over to their cornhole game, when it happens.
He reaches for the last cup of horchata sitting on the truck’s counter at the exact same time as a woman he doesn’t recognize. Their knuckles brush. Hers are calloused, rough at the edges, same as his, which are perpetually scraped raw from sanding aluminum frames and tightening rusted bolts. She laughs, a low, warm sound that cuts through the mariachi music drifting from the truck’s speakers and the squeal of kids chasing each other with glow sticks. “Sorry,” she says, holding her hands up in surrender. “Been craving that stuff since I moved here three weeks ago. You can have it.”
Javier shakes his head, pushes the cup toward her. He notices the streak of silver running through the dark hair she’s pulled back in a loose braid, the smudge of dirt on her jeans knee, the way she’s leaning in to talk to him instead of craning her neck to look for someone more interesting, the way almost everyone else does at these things. “Nah,” he says. “I drink enough of this stuff when I’m working. You’re the new neighbor, right? The one who bought the old craftsman with the rotting front porch?”
She nods, takes the cup, takes a sip, and leans against the truck next to him, close enough that her shoulder brushes his bicep when she shifts her weight. He can smell cedar perfume on her, mixed with the smoke from the fire pit halfway down the block and the greasy, savory scent of grilled carne asada. Elara, she says. Retired travel nurse. Spent the last 15 years bouncing between small town ERs across West Texas, finally decided to put down roots. She gestures to the half-restored 1972 Airstream parked on the edge of his lot, its silver shell buffed to a soft shine, its front panel still propped open to expose the half-finished wiring. “That yours?” she asks. “I’ve been walking past it every morning on my runs, wondering when it’s gonna hit the road.”
Javier tenses up a little, like he always does when people ask about that specific Airstream. He started working on it six months after his wife died, 8 years prior, told himself he’d drive it down to Big Bend once it was done, the place they’d planned their 20th anniversary trip to before she got sick. He’s been stuck on the last of the electrical work for three months, too stubborn to ask for help, too unmotivated to finish it alone. The idea of bringing someone else along, of sharing that trip he’d always thought would be just for him and his late wife, makes his chest tight with a weird mix of guilt and sharp, unnameable want. “Yeah,” he says, taking a long sip of his beer. “Supposed to be a solo trip. Haven’t gotten around to wrapping it up.”
Elara snorts, tells him she used to camp in Big Bend every other weekend when she was working at the hospital in Marfa, knows all the hidden backcountry spots, knows how to wire camper electrical systems from the three years she spent working seasonal jobs at a campground outside Yellowstone in her 20s. “You want an extra pair of hands?” she asks, shifting closer, so their elbows are pressed together now. “I’ve got nothing but free time on weekends, and I’d rather mess around with an Airstream than unpack the last of my moving boxes.”
Javier’s first instinct is to say no. He never lets anyone touch his projects, never lets people into the little routines he’s built for himself since his wife died, hates the pitying looks people give him when he mentions he’s been doing everything alone for almost a decade. But then he looks down at her, and she’s not giving him that look. She’s just raising an eyebrow, waiting, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he doesn’t answer right away. A kid chasing a golden retriever runs past, slams into her side, and she stumbles forward. Javier catches her by the waist, his hand splayed over the soft flannel of her shirt, and for three beats they just stand there, eye contact unbroken, no awkward pulling away, no flustered apologies. She smiles slow, and says, “Your hands are warmer than they look.”
He says yes.
She shows up at his shop at 8 a.m. the next Saturday, a beat-up tool belt slung over her shoulder, a cooler of cold Mexican beer and a bag of breakfast tacos in her other hand. Javier doesn’t even pretend to be surprised. He’s already got the wiring spool set up by the Airstream door, a pair of leather work gloves sitting on the workbench for her. He hands her the gloves, and when their fingers brush again, neither of them pulls away. She climbs into the Airstream first, and he follows, pulling the door shut behind them, the hum of cicadas from the oak trees outside fading to a soft murmur. When she brushes a strand of silver-streaked hair out of her face and grins at him over the top of the crimping tool, he realizes he hasn’t looked forward to anything this much in almost a decade.
