Rafe Mendez, 53, has repaired antique typewriters out of his converted Asheville garage for 11 years, ever since he quit his soul-sucking corporate IT job six months before his wife walked out. His biggest flaw is he’ll spend three hours fixing a high school kid’s $20 thrift store typewriter for free just to avoid saying no, and he hasn’t so much as held a woman’s hand since his ex loaded her hiking gear into her new boyfriend’s Subaru and drove west. He’s at the weekly summer craft market on a sweltering Saturday, sweat sticking his faded Willie Nelson t-shirt to his back, grease crusted under his fingernails, when he looks up from a jammed 1952 Royal Quiet De Luxe and freezes.
Lila Carter is leaning against the aluminum pole of his pop-up tent, linen dress the color of clover blowing around her calves, bare feet in scuffed leather sandals, a half-empty cup of pink lemonade in one hand. She’s his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the last person he expected to see 19 years after his wedding, when she was 29 with a silver nose ring and a habit of sneaking him shots of tequila during the reception when his ex’s family was nagging him about getting a “real job.” The stack of typewriter ribbon tins next to her arm clinks when she shifts her weight, and she grins, the same gap between her two front teeth he’d found stupidly charming back then.
He stumbles over his greeting, wiping his palm on his jeans before he shakes her outstretched hand. Her skin is warm, smells like coconut sunscreen and peppermint gum, and he yanks his hand back faster than he needs to, equal parts flustered and guilty. He’d spent eight years telling himself anyone related to his ex was off limits, even the cousin who’d called him three days after the divorce to say his ex was an idiot and he deserved better. She sits down on the folding chair next to his workbench, knees brushing his when she leans in to look at the Royal, and he can feel the heat of her leg through his denim. She says she’s in town for her sister’s wedding, looked up his shop as soon as she booked her flight, wanted to see if he was still as quiet and stubborn as she remembered.
They chat for 45 minutes, the hum of the market around them, the smell of fried green tomatoes from the food truck two stalls over curling through the hot air. She teases him about still wearing the same beat-up work boots he had on his wedding day, and he laughs, a rough, rusty sound he doesn’t hear often these days. When he passes her a vial of royal blue typewriter ink to look at, their fingers brush, and the jolt that shoots up his arm is so sharp he almost drops the vial. They both freeze for two beats, eye contact held, before she looks away, tucking a strand of sun-bleached brown hair behind her ear, and he swears her cheeks are pink.
A thunderclap booms out of nowhere, dark clouds rolling over the mountain so fast no one has time to react before the rain pours, cold and hard, sending market vendors scrambling to pack up their stalls. Rafe fumbles with the tent poles, his fingers slipping on the wet aluminum, and Lila jumps in to help, yanking the canvas down before the wind can tear it off the frame. They end up huddled under the half-collapsed awning for 10 minutes while the rain pours, shoulders pressed tight together, her damp hair curling at the ends and brushing his neck. She tilts her head up to look at him, rain drops beading on her eyelashes, and says she always thought he wasted too much of his life being nice to people who didn’t care if he was happy. Before he can think of a response, she kisses him, slow, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, and he doesn’t pull away. The tiny, panicked voice in his head screaming that it’s wrong, that his ex’s family will lose their minds, that he’s too old for this kind of stupid thrill, goes completely quiet.
The rain stops as fast as it started, sun breaking through the clouds and steaming the wet asphalt, the smell of pine and wet dirt hanging thick in the air. They finish packing up his typewriters and gear in silence, the kind of easy quiet that doesn’t feel awkward, and when he slams the tailgate of his beat-up 2008 F150 shut, she asks if he wants to get dinner at the 24-hour diner on the edge of town he used to rave about, the one that serves peach pie so sweet it makes your teeth hurt. He says yes, no hesitation, doesn’t even stop to think about the wedding, or what his ex will say if she finds out. He climbs into the driver’s seat, she rolls the passenger window all the way down, holding her hand out to catch the last of the raindrops flying off the side mirror. He slips a vintage Chet Baker record into the dash, the trumpet soft and warm over the sound of the wind, and she laughs when he taps his thumb on the steering wheel in time with the beat.
