Rafe Mendez, 52, makes his living patching rusted holes in vintage campers and fitting custom walnut countertops for folks willing to pay top dollar for a slice of 70s road trip nostalgia. He’s got a scar snaking up his left forearm from a slip with a circular saw three years back, and a bad habit of bailing on any social interaction that could spark small town gossip, ever since a disgruntled former client spread a lie that he’d overcharged a widow for a camper repair a decade prior. The rumor stuck just long enough to cost him a contract restoring a fleet of vintage Airstreams for a glamping resort, and he’s kept his head down and his personal life as unremarkable as possible ever since.
He’s leaning against the side of his fully restored 1972 Airstream at the annual Madison County chili cookoff, sipping a cold PBR, when he spots Lila Marlow walking toward him. She’s 38, runs the Main Street bakery, and he’s gone out of his way to avoid her for three years straight. He dated her mom for six months back in 2004, when Lila was 19 and home from community college, covered in cupcake frosting and complaining about her art history exams, and now half the old men in town leer at her when she unloads crates of sourdough outside her shop at 6 a.m. Rafe has told himself a hundred times it’s wrong to notice the way her jeans fit, or the dusting of freckles across her nose, or how her laugh carries over the crowd like wind through pine trees.
She’s holding a chipped ceramic plate stacked with peach cobbler, the crust glistening with butter, when she stops in front of him. “My mom said this was your favorite,” she says, holding it out, and when he reaches to take it, her fingertips brush his. Her skin is warm, softer than he expected, and he fumbles the plate for half a second before he gets a grip. The air smells like chili, burnt hickory smoke, and the cinnamon vanilla perfume she wears, sharp enough to cut through the crisp October chill.
She nods at the Airstream door propped open behind him. “I’ve been bugging you for six months to give me a quote on the 1968 Scotty I bought off Craigslist. You keep ignoring my texts.” Rafe shifts his weight, takes a sip of beer to buy time. The last thing he needs is the whole town talking about him spending time alone with Lila, people already love to make up garbage about age gaps in a town this small. He can already hear the whispers at the hardware store, the snide comments from the guys at the chili booth across the field. But she’s leaning in, her forearm brushing his bicep as she cranes her neck to see the walnut countertop he installed inside, and he can’t bring himself to say no.
The Airstream is tight, barely enough space for two people to stand without pressing against each other. She runs her hand along the edge of the countertop, her knuckles brushing his when he points out the under-cabinet lighting he wired himself. “I wanted to take it up to the Blue Ridge Parkway on weekends,” she says, her voice lower now, no trace of the bright cheer she uses for bakery customers. “I hate sleeping in hotels. All the sheets smell like bleach.”
Rafe’s throat feels tight. He keeps telling himself she’s just a kid, that he knew her when she was still stealing candy from her mom’s purse, that anyone who sees them leave together will say the worst possible things. But she turns to face him, they’re so close he can see the gold flecks in her brown eyes, and she doesn’t step back when his shoulder brushes hers. “I know you’re avoiding me because you think people will talk,” she says, and she rests her hand on his wrist, her palm warm through the thin fabric of his flannel shirt. “I don’t care what they say. I’ve had a crush on you since I was 19 and watched you fix my mom’s pickup in the rain, shirt soaked through, swearing at the carburetor. You’re the only guy in this town who doesn’t talk to me like I’m just a pair of tits behind a bakery counter.”
He stares at her for a long second, the noise of the cookoff fading out, the only sound the hum of the Airstream’s small space heater and her soft, steady breathing. He’s spent ten years running from anything that could make people judge him, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel worth it. He nods, tells her he’ll block off next Saturday at his shop to go over the Scotty’s repairs, no charge for the consultation.
She grins, bright enough to make his chest feel light, and squeezes his wrist before she steps back toward the door. “Don’t bail on me this time,” she says, and she’s gone before he can answer, the scent of her perfume lingering in the small space.
He takes a bite of the peach cobbler, the fruit sweet and warm, the crust flaky, exactly how he remembers it. He watches her walk back to her bakery’s booth, stopping to hug a little kid with a face covered in chili powder, and he smiles to himself. He wipes a smudge of peach filling off his chin with the back of his hand, already counting the hours until Saturday.
