Javier Mendez, 52, makes his living stripping rust off 1960s and 70s Japanese motorcycles out of a cinder block shop on the edge of upstate New York’s small town Kingston, and has avoided every local community event since his wife packed up and moved to Portland three years prior. His worst flaw, one he’s only recently started admitting to himself, is that he writes off anyone who isn’t covered in grease half the time as having nothing worth saying, and writes off friendly overtures as pity for the guy who got left. He only showed up to the fire department cookout because he’d donated a full tune-up as a raffle prize, and owed the chief a favor after they put out a small electrical fire in his shop last winter.
He’s leaning against the bed of his dented 2006 F150, sipping a lukewarm Pabst, debating bailing early when a kid with a face full of cotton candy barrels past, and someone’s elbow bumps his forearm hard enough to slosh beer down his wrist. He looks up, and it’s Lena, the woman who moved into the cottage two doors down from him three months back. He’s only waved at her twice, both times ducking back into his garage before she could say more than hello, convinced the perennially put-together elementary school art teacher wouldn’t have time for a guy who still has carburetor grease under his nails at dinner.
She’s holding a paper plate stacked high with pulled pork and a slice of cherry pie, sun gilding the gray streaks in her dark hair, and she laughs when he swipes at the beer on his wrist with the edge of his frayed flannel. “Sorry about that,” she says, leaning in just close enough that he can smell coconut sunscreen and the sweet, tart tang of pie filling on her breath. “Those kids have been running wild since the bounce house inflated an hour ago.”
He grunts, not sure what to say, and nods at the plate in her hand. “Pie looks good.” It’s the dumbest thing he’s said all week, but she grins, holds eye contact for two beats longer than casual politeness requires, and he feels the back of his neck go warm. He’s half annoyed at himself for even caring—he’s spent three years actively not noticing women, convinced dating in a small town is just a fast track to everyone knowing your business, half drawn to the way she doesn’t fidget or look away when he stares back.
She gestures at the logo stitched onto his flannel chest, the faded Mendez Moto script he’d designed himself back when he first opened the shop. “I saw you working on that 1972 CB750 in your garage last Saturday,” she says, shifting her weight so her cotton sundress brushes the side of his work boot. “You were singing Tom Petty so loud I could hear it through my kitchen window. You missed a lot of the lyrics, by the way.”
He snorts, surprised, and for the first time in years he doesn’t immediately make an excuse to leave. They talk for 20 minutes, standing so close their shoulders brush every time someone walks past, her telling him about the art supply drive she’s running for her students whose families can’t afford crayons or sketchbooks, him telling her about the CB750 he’s restoring for a 16 year old kid who’s saving up for it by mowing lawns all summer. He doesn’t realize how close they’re standing until the wind picks up, blowing a strand of her hair across his face, and he tucks it behind her ear before he can think better of it. His fingers brush her cheek, and she doesn’t pull away, just smiles up at him, and the part of him that’s been disgusted with himself for even wanting to talk to her melts away completely.
The fire chief grabs the mic then, yelling out the winning raffle numbers over the hum of the crowd, and Javier blinks when he realizes the numbers he scrawled on the back of his crumpled ticket match. He wins 820 bucks in the 50/50 drawing, and before he can overthink it, he splits the stack of cash in half, shoves 410 into her hand. “For the art supplies,” he says, and her fingers wrap around his, her thumb brushing the thin, silvery scar on his wrist he got when a carburetor exploded on him 10 years back. He doesn’t flinch, which is new—he usually pulls away when people touch the scar, hates the pitying looks he gets when they ask what happened.
She tucks the cash into the pocket of her sundress, and when she asks if he’d be willing to teach her how to change the oil on her beat up 2008 Outback, he says yes before she finishes the question. They agree she’ll stop by his shop Saturday morning at 10, and he walks her to her sedan, holding the door open for her while she tosses her empty paper plate into the trash can by the curb.
She rolls the window down before she pulls out, and yells that she’ll bring coffee and homemade chocolate chip cookies, the kind with extra sea salt. He nods, leaning against the door frame, and watches her car turn onto the main road, kicking up a small cloud of dust. He lifts his wrist, presses his fingers to the spot where her thumb brushed his scar, and takes the last sip of his now flat beer. He’d forgotten his phone in the truck the entire time they were talking, and he doesn’t even care that he missed three texts from his brother asking where he was.
