Rico Morales, 52, vintage camper restoration specialist, has been holed up in his La Grande, Oregon, barn shop for three days straight redoing the teak interior of a 1972 Airstream for a fussy client from Portland, so when the Fourth of July heat broke at dusk he drove his beat-up 1998 Ford F-150 the 12 miles out to the only roadhouse within 20 miles that doesn’t blast modern bro-country on repeat. He grabs a stool at the far end of the bar, orders a PBR and a basket of fried cheese curds, kicks his scuffed work boots up on the chipped wood rail below, and watches the first round of fireworks paint the dark Blue Hills pink through the bar’s wide open roll-up garage door. Peanut shells crunch under his boots when he shifts in his seat, the air smells like charcoal grill smoke and cheap beer, the neon Pabst sign above the bar hums so loud he can feel it in his molars. The place is packed: ranchers in dust-caked cowboy hats, teens sneaking sips of their parents’ beers, a group of public works guys yelling about the upcoming county fair rodeo.
He notices her 10 minutes in, sitting two stools down, wearing a faded navy flannel and scuffed work boots, thin silver hoops glinting every time a firework bursts overhead. He overhears the bartender call her Mara, remembers someone at the feed store earlier that week complaining about the new public health nurse who was setting up free COVID and shingles clinics at the library, pushing “government garbage” on folks who didn’t want it. A group of cattle ranchers a few seats over had been muttering about her all night, and when one guy “accidentally” spilled a beer on her sleeve 20 minutes prior she’d just laughed, wiped it off with a napkin, and told him to watch where he was swinging his thick arms next instead of making a scene. He respects that. He’s spent the last 8 years avoiding town drama like the plague, ever since his wife left him for a real estate agent in Boise and the local gossip mill ran wild with made-up stories about why the marriage fell apart. He doesn’t do small talk, doesn’t do casual hookups, doesn’t do anything that will put his name on anyone’s lips for any reason.
She slides onto the stool next to him without warning, setting her half-drunk glass of iced tea down on the bar between them, and asks if he minds if she sits there, the guys down the way were starting to get a little too comfortable making comments about her “commie agenda”. He nods, doesn’t say anything at first, pushing the shared peanut bowl between them a little closer to her. She thanks him, grabs a handful, and when her forearm brushes his he feels a jolt he hasn’t felt in years, rough work-calloused skin against his, she smells like pine soap and cherry hard candy, like the high desert hiking trails he walks alone every Sunday morning. Their knees brush under the bar when she shifts to get a better look at the fireworks, and neither of them moves away. She asks what he does for work, and when he tells her he restores vintage campers she lights up, says she’s been trying to find a cheap 1960s Scotty to fix up for weekend camping trips to the Wallowa Mountains. He makes a joke about how the only Scotty within 100 miles right now is a rotted out hulk behind the old general store that’s currently home to a family of skunks, and she snorts, loud and unselfconscious, the sound cutting through the bar’s noise better than any of the jukebox songs. He finds himself talking more than he has to anyone in months, telling her about the Airstream he’s working on, about the time he bought a 1956 Winnebago for $200 that had a raccoon family living in the overhead cabinets.
A group of drunk teens roughhousing near the door knock over a folding table 45 minutes later, sending plastic cups and a half-eaten plate of loaded nachos flying toward them. She leans into him automatically to avoid getting hit, her shoulder pressed tight to his chest for half a second, and he lifts his hand to steady her by the elbow, his fingers wrapping around the soft, worn fabric of her flannel, not letting go right away even when the teens scramble to clean up the mess. She looks up at him, her eyes dark, holding his gaze for three full beats, no smile, no nervous fidgeting, just steady, like she’s reading something he thought he’d locked away years ago. She says her car alternator died that morning, she’s staying in the little rental cabin two miles down the road from his shop for the next three weeks for the clinic run, and she hasn’t been able to find anyone who can fix it without charging her double the part’s worth. He says he can swing by tomorrow morning at 9, he’s got a spare alternator in his shop that will fit her Honda CR-V, no charge, just bring him a slice of the peach pie the roadhouse sells, the one with the crumb top he can never get to himself before it sells out. She grins, pulls a crumpled napkin out of her jeans pocket, scribbles her phone number and the cabin address on it in blue ballpoint, presses it into his palm, her fingers lingering on his for a beat longer than necessary.
The fireworks end 15 minutes later, the bar starts clearing out, she says her roommate from the clinic is coming to pick her up, thanks him again for the seat and the alternator offer. He nods, tells her he’ll see her tomorrow, tucks the napkin into the front pocket of his work jeans, makes sure it’s folded tight so it doesn’t get smudged with grease or beer. He drives home slowly, the windows rolled down, the cool summer air blowing in, smelling like sage and cut alfalfa, the distant sound of leftover firecrackers popping in the hills. He walks into his barn shop, flicks on the fluorescent overhead light, pulls the napkin out of his pocket, sets it on his workbench right next to his favorite 10mm socket set, where he can’t miss it when he wakes up. He grabs a cold beer from the mini fridge he keeps in the shop, leans against the workbench, watches the last of the firework glow fade from the edge of the sky. He grabs his phone off the bench, opens a new text thread, types his address and a quick line about bringing extra pie before he can talk himself out of it.
