Rafe Marquez, 53, leans against the cracked vinyl bar stool, nursing a neat bourbon, the soles of his work boots throbbing after 12 hours manning his vintage camper restoration booth at the county harvest festival. Wood smoke seeps through the bar’s screen door, mixing with the scent of fried onion rings and stale beer, Merle Haggard’s rough drawl humming low from the jukebox in the corner. Most of the festival crowd has cleared out, the only other patrons a group of rowdy ranch hands yelling over a pool game and a couple making out in the back booth. He’s got half a mind to finish his drink and head back to his off-grid cabin outside town, where the only noise is the wind through the pine trees and the occasional hoot of an owl, no small talk required.
He spots her out of the corner of his eye before she reaches the bar, and his jaw tightens. Clara Bennett, 49, the woman who dropped off a water-damaged 1972 Airstream at his shop three weeks prior, and the reason he’s broken his own “no after-work socializing with clients” rule three times this month, lingering at the bar just in case she shows up. She’s his ex-wife’s second cousin, for Christ’s sake, their families used to share Thanksgiving dinners back when he was still married, and he’s spent weeks waging a war with himself, half disgusted that he’s even attracted to her, half desperate to talk to her for longer than 10 minutes about water pump replacements and sealant grades. He’d told himself a hundred times it’s not worth the small town gossip, the snide comments that’ll make their way back to his ex, the risk of ruining the reputation he’s built for his shop since he moved to town six years ago, fresh off a messy divorce that left him sick of any drama that didn’t involve rusted camper frames.
She doesn’t hesitate, sliding directly into the stool next to him, her knee brushing his denim-clad thigh for a beat before she shifts, the heat of the contact lingering long after she pulls away. She orders a pear hard cider, the bartender sliding the frosty glass across the wood, and she knocks it lightly against his bourbon, her hazel eyes flecked with gold holding his gaze for three full beats before he looks away, his neck flushing. She’s wearing a faded wildland firefighter hoodie, her auburn hair streaked with gray pulled back in a messy ponytail, her nail polish chipped navy blue, the exact same shade he used on the trim of the 1968 Shasta he had on display at the festival today. “Saw your booth out there,” she says, taking a sip of her cider, her voice rough around the edges, like she’s been yelling over festival crowds all day. “That Shasta looked damn good. You gonna charge someone an arm and a leg for it?”
He snorts, shaking his head, telling her he’s keeping that one for himself, fixing it up to take fishing trips up to the mountain. They talk for 20 minutes, him telling her about the weird wiring issue he fixed in her Airstream, the original 1972 avocado green cabinet pulls he found at a swap meet last weekend that he threw in for free, the new USB outlets he installed per her request. When he tells her about the cabinet pulls, she leans across the bar, squeezing his forearm, her hand calloused at the knuckles from months of fighting wildfires over the summer, the warmth of the touch sending a jolt up his arm straight to his chest. He’s supposed to tell her the final bill is ready, that he’ll drop the keys off at her place next week, keep the interaction strictly professional, like he does with every other client, but the words stick in his throat.
She leans in a little closer, close enough he can smell the cedar shampoo she uses and the faint tang of cider on her breath, and smirks, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. “I know you’ve been avoiding me,” she says, tapping a finger against the side of his bourbon glass. “Know you’re weird about the cousin thing, know you don’t date clients. I don’t care. I’ve had a crush on you since last spring, when I saw you haul a rusted 1960s Scotty out of a ditch on the side of the highway, covered in grease, swearing so loud the birds flew off the nearby power lines. Don’t care what your ex thinks, don’t care what the town gossips say. I’m not here for drama.”
Rafe sits silent for a second, the bourbon warm in his stomach, the distant clink of pool balls and sound of Merle Haggard’s voice fading into background noise. He thinks about the last eight years, holed up in his cabin alone, turning down every blind date his sister tried to set him up on, convinced he was better off by himself, no messy feelings to deal with, no one to let down. The guilt he’s been carrying for weeks, the stupid worry about what other people will think, melts away fast, replaced by a giddy, light feeling he hasn’t had since he was 19, sneaking out after football games with his high school girlfriend. He finishes the last of his bourbon, sets the glass down on the bar, and looks back at her, grinning. “Your Airstream’s gassed up and parked behind my shop,” he says. “I got a restored camp stove that works better than most indoor ovens, and a fishing rod that’s been gathering dust for six months. If you’re serious about that trip up to Mount Hood you mentioned a few weeks back, we can leave first thing tomorrow.”
Her face lights up, crinkles forming at the corners of her eyes, and she leans in even closer, her shoulder pressed fully against his now, warm and solid. “I’ll bring the cinnamon sugar apple cider donuts from the bakery downtown,” she says, taking a sip of her cider, her knee brushing his again, intentional this time. “The ones with the extra glaze.”
He stands, slings his work jacket over his shoulder, and holds out a hand to her. She takes it, her fingers lacing through his, calloused and warm, and they walk out of the bar together, the cool fall air hitting their faces, fireworks from the festival’s closing show exploding over the fairgrounds, painting the dark sky streaks of pink and tangerine. He doesn’t think about the gossip, doesn’t think about the final bill he still hasn’t sent her, doesn’t think about anything except the way her hand fits in his, and the long, winding road leading up to the mountain, stretching out in front of them.
