Rafe Mendoza, 53, vintage travel trailer restorer, has avoided the annual Burnet County Spring Craft Fair for eight straight years, ever since his wife loaded up her Honda Civic and drove to Portland without leaving a note beyond a sticky note on the fridge that said “Sorry.” He’s spent those years holed up in his barn shop on the edge of town, only talking to clients when they drop off or pick up trailers, turning down every invitation to town events, convinced all small town socializing is just performative gossip and forced niceties. He only shows up this year because his best friend’s 16-year-old daughter is selling chocolate chip cookies to raise money for her high school robotics team, and he’d promised he’d stop by, no excuses.
He’s standing by the lemonade stand, sipping something so sweet it makes his teeth ache, watching a group of kids chase a goat someone brought for the petting zoo, when the collision happens. She’s hauling a stack of dog-eared paperbacks, tripping over the cord for the lemonade stand’s cooler, slamming full tilt into his chest. The books go flying, her palm smacks his forearm first, soft and warm, and he can smell lavender hand lotion and the dusty, sweet smell of old paper before he even looks down at her.
She’s got silver threads woven through dark brown hair pulled back in a loose braid, a smudge of blue ink on her left cheek, chipped sage green nail polish, and she’s muttering apologies so fast he can barely keep up, avoiding eye contact until she leans down to grab a copy of *Where the Wild Things Are* and her gaze locks with his. She freezes for half a second, holds that eye contact long enough that he can see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, then she stands up, brushing dust off her denim skirt, and says “You’re Rafe, right? The trailer guy. My students talk about the one you restored for their grandma, the silver one that looks like a spaceship.”
He finds out she’s Elara Voss, the new town librarian, married to the mayor, who got elected three weeks prior on a platform of cutting “frivolous public spending” — which, he’s heard, means cutting the library’s after school tutoring program, the same one his 14-year-old neighbor goes to every day because his mom works two jobs and can’t be home to help with homework. He says as much, and she snorts, a low, rough, unpolished sound that makes him grin, glancing over her shoulder at the stage where the mayor’s droning on about “fiscal responsibility” to a half-asleep crowd.
“I snuck out ten minutes into the speech,” she says, shifting closer to him when a group of retirees walks past, their shoulders brushing so lightly he can feel the heat of her arm through his flannel shirt. “He hates that I’m even doing this book raffle, says it’s a waste of town resources to give away free books to kids who should just buy their own if they want to read that bad.” They bend down at the same time to grab the last stray book, a beat-up 1972 copy of *Travels with Charley*, and their knees knock together, hard enough to make him wince, and she laughs, leaning into his side for half a second before she pulls back, cheeks pink.
He mentions he just finished restoring a 1962 Airstream Sovereign, fully outfitted, even has a little wood stove for cold desert nights, and her eyes light up, she says she’s been begging her husband to take a trip out to Big Bend for years, but he thinks camping is “for people who can’t afford a resort suite in Cabo.” The mayor’s voice booms over the loudspeaker then, calling her name, and she flinches, like she’s been burned, glancing at the stage like she’s considering running the other way.
Rafe pulls a business card out of his jeans pocket, edges frayed from being carried around for weeks, tucks it between the pages of the Steinbeck book she’s holding, his fingers brushing hers for a full, electric second before he pulls his hand back. “My shop’s three miles west of town, the old red barn with the Airstream parked out front. I’m usually there till 7 most evenings, when he’s at the country club for his weekly poker game, if you ever want to see the Sovereign in person.”
She tucks the book tight against her chest, nods, doesn’t say anything, but she winks so fast he almost thinks he imagined it, before she turns and walks back toward the stage, braid swinging over her shoulder. He stays at the fair another 20 minutes, buys three dozen cookies from his friend’s daughter, drives back to the barn, spends the rest of the afternoon detailing the Sovereign, even stops at the liquor store on his way home to pick up a six pack of the hazy IPA he’s heard librarians rave about at the local coffee shop, just in case.
He’s under the Sovereign tightening a loose lug nut at 6:17 the next Friday, grease under his nails, classic country playing low on the shop radio, when he hears the crunch of boots on gravel. He rolls out from under the trailer, squints against the golden evening sun, and sees her standing there, wearing ripped jeans and a faded Willie Nelson tee, no makeup, the *Travels with Charley* book tucked under her arm, holding a six pack of the same IPA he bought the week before. He glances past her, sees her beat-up Subaru parked by the barn gate, her wedding ring sitting face down on the dashboard, glinting in the sun. He wipes the grease off his hands on his work pants and stands up, already reaching for the cooler he stocked that morning just in case.
