Javi Mendez, 53, owns a small vintage camper restoration shop on a tree-lined strip of downtown Boise, Idaho. He’s gone eight years without dating, ever since his ex-wife left him for a retired tech bro who rolled up to their house in a $220,000 custom Winnebago, no renovation required. His hard rule? No fraternizing with anyone within a three-block radius of his shop, because half the people who hit him up at local meetups only want a discount on a rig flip, or a free place to crash during cross-country road trips. He’s spent three months actively avoiding Lila, the new baker who opened the gluten-free patisserie two doors down, because every time he catches a whiff of her vanilla hazelnut perfume through the open shop doors, his brain goes blank, and he can’t string two sentences together without sounding like a fool.
He’s standing in line at the neighborhood summer block party’s beer truck when it happens, sweat sticking the collar of his fiberglass-dusted flannel to his neck, Johnny Cash’s *Folsom Prison Blues* warbling out of a portable speaker someone dragged out onto the curb. The sun dips pink over the rooftop of the laundromat at the end of the block, the air thick with the smell of grilled brats and charred corn, citronella candles burning around the perimeter to keep mosquitos away. He reaches for the last cold IPA on the truck’s metal counter at the exact same time she does. Their knuckles knock first, then her palm presses flat to the back of his hand for half a beat before she yanks hers back like she’s touched a hot stove. He can feel the rough callus on the pad of her thumb, the same kind he has on his own dominant hand from hours sanding aluminum camper siding. She laughs, a low, throaty sound, and apologizes, says she pulled a 12-hour shift the day before and that IPA was the only thing getting her through the last batch of sourdough. He shrugs, says he’ll take the lager, no hard feelings, he’s not picky.
They drift off to the edge of the crowd to sip their drinks, away from the guy yelling a loud story about a fishing trip gone wrong. He’s awkward at first, keeps rubbing the back of his neck, avoids eye contact until she teases him about the fleck of pale pink fiberglass stuck in his dark eyebrow. “I see you in your shop all the time,” she says, leaning in close enough that her shoulder presses to his bicep, warm through the thin flannel, so she doesn’t have to yell over the noise. “You work longer hours than I do. I left a lemon scone on your porch a month ago, when you were pulling all-nighters on that beat up 1968 Shasta the newlyweds brought in. Figured you’d forgotten to eat. You never said anything.” He blinks, remembers the scone, had assumed it was a prank from the teen boys who hang out at the gas station down the street, threw it in the trash without a second thought. He tells her as much, calls himself an idiot, and she laughs again, her smile showing a slightly crooked front tooth, a streak of silver in her dark hair catching the sunset when she tucks a strand behind her ear. He notices the tiny blue rolling pin tattoo on her wrist, faded at the edges.
He finds himself rambling about the Shasta, about how the newlyweds saved for five years to afford the renovation, how he’s been working extra shifts to get it done in time for their national park honeymoon. She listens, actually listens, doesn’t ask how much the job pays, doesn’t drop a hint about the beat up old conversion van she has parked behind her shop. She tells him about the Karen who came in the week prior, complained her sourdough was “too fermented” and demanded a full refund, then tried to stuff three almond croissants in her purse on the way out. He snorts beer out of his nose, hasn’t laughed that hard in close to a decade.
The crowd thins out as the sky turns dark purple, streetlights flickering on one by one. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, looks him dead in the eye, no nervous darting away, the corner of her mouth tilted up in a half-smirk. “I got a batch of salted caramel brownies in the shop still warm,” she says. “Gluten free. You want to come try one? No strings attached. Unless you’re still convinced I’m gonna ask you to flip my van for free.” He freezes, that’s exactly what he’d been assuming for three months, the entire reason he’d avoided her. He fights the urge to make an excuse, to say he has to get back to the shop to sand a cabinet, that he’s got an early start the next day. He looks at her, at the calluses on her hands, the silver streak in her hair, the way she’s not playing games, just asking. He nods.
They walk the half block to her shop, the sidewalk still warm under his work boots, crickets chirping in the flower beds lining the street. She unlocks the front door, and the smell of melted chocolate, sea salt, and vanilla hits him the second it swings open, warmer and sweeter than any new camper interior he’s ever stepped foot in. She pulls a brownie out of the glass display case, cuts it in half, hands him one piece, their fingers brushing again when he takes it. He takes a bite, gooey caramel oozing down his chin, and she laughs, reaches up to wipe the sticky spot off his stubble with her thumb, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, just stands there holding the brownie as she licks the caramel off her thumb, her eyes never leaving his.
