Rico Marquez, 53, makes his living rebuilding vintage Japanese motorcycles out of a cinder block shop behind his house outside Bend, Oregon. He hasn’t attended the Deschutes County Fair in six years, not since his daughter graduated high school, and the only reason he’s there now is that she begged him to haul the 50cc mini-bike he welded for her 7-year-old cousin to the kids’ parade. His Carhartt work pants are stiff with three days worth of chain lube, the toe of his left work boot has a crack he hasn’t bothered to seal, and there’s a smudge of flat black paint on his left jaw he missed when he splashed water on his face that morning. His wife left him for a commercial real estate agent eight years prior, and he’s thrown himself almost entirely into his work since, avoiding most social events beyond the occasional beer with his shop assistant and mandatory family gatherings. The air reeks of fried dough, cow manure, and the sugary syrup from the cotton candy stands, and he’s already mentally calculating how fast he can leave once he drops the bike off.
He detours toward the fried peach stand first, because his daughter texted him ten minutes prior saying she’d kill him if he didn’t bring her a fritter extra dusted with cinnamon. The woman running the counter is Lena Voss, and he freezes mid-step when he sees her. He’s known her for seven years, back when their daughters were attached at the hip through every high school party and late night study session, and he’s always deliberately kept his distance. She was married until last winter, for one, and for another, she’s the kind of woman who wears linen blouses to parent teacher conferences and volunteers at the local animal shelter, a far cry from the guy who spends most nights drinking cheap beer alone while he sandblasts old carburetors. He’d always written her off as entirely off limits, the kind of quiet, warm person he had no business even looking at for too long, especially in a small town where everyone knows everyone’s business.
She looks up from stacking paper plates, recognizes him immediately, and grins. The corners of her eyes crinkle, and she wipes her hands on the flour-dusted apron tied around her waist as she leans over the counter. “Rico Marquez. I thought you hid out in that shop of yours 24/7 now.” Her voice is lower than he remembers, rougher from hours of yelling over the fair loudspeakers and the hum of the deep fryer behind her, and he feels the back of his neck heat up. He mumbles something about the mini-bike, about the fritter, and she laughs, nodding as she turns to grab one from the warmer behind her. A group of kids on sugar highs comes tearing past the stand, one slams into his shoulder, and he stumbles forward, his left hand brushing the soft curve of her waist when he catches himself on the edge of the counter. He yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, mumbles an apology, but she just tilts her head, doesn’t step away, her gaze locked on his for three full beats too long for casual conversation.
He’s furious with himself for even registering how soft her linen shirt was under his calloused fingers, for noticing that the sun is gilding the streaks of auburn in her brown hair, that she’s wearing the same silver hoop earrings she wore to their daughters’ graduation. This is a line he’s never even considered crossing, the mom of his daughter’s best friend, someone he’s supposed to see as an acquaintance, nothing more. The disgust warring with the low hum of desire in his chest makes his ears ring, and he’s half ready to grab the fritter and run when she nods at the paint smudge on his jaw. “You got a little something there. Reminds me of when our girls tried to paint their prom dresses neon green in your garage. I still have that stain on my favorite jeans.”
He laughs, actually laughs, the sound catching him off guard, and he rubs at his jaw, missing the paint entirely. She leans further over the counter, reaches out, and swipes the pad of her thumb across his jaw to wipe it off. Her skin is warm, smells like coconut shampoo and cinnamon, and he doesn’t move away. She tells him she’s been meaning to ask him for months if he’d take a look at the 1972 Honda Trail 70 she’s had rotting in the side of her garage since she was a kid, that she’s been trying to fix it up herself but can’t wrap her head around the carburetor setup. He doesn’t even hesitate before he says he can swing by tomorrow after he finishes the CB350 rebuild he’s wrapping up for a client in Portland. She scribbles her address and cell number on a napkin, her fingers brushing his when she hands it over, and he tucks it into the front pocket of his Carhartts, pressing it flat with his thumb so it doesn’t crumple.
He grabs the fritter, says he’ll see her tomorrow, and walks back toward the parade route, the paper napkin crinkling slightly under his fingers when he presses on it through his pocket. His daughter spots him from the back of a 4-H float, waves wildly, and he lifts his hand to wave back, the taste of cinnamon still on his tongue from the bite of fritter he’d snuck on the walk over. He unlocks the door to his beat-up F150, sets the fritter on the passenger seat, and pulls the napkin out of his pocket to make sure the number didn’t smudge, his thumb brushing the loop of her handwriting where she’d scrawled her name at the bottom.
