Rafe Mendez, 52, runs a one-man vintage camping gear restoration shop out of his detached garage in Grand Junction, Colorado. His ex-wife left him eight years prior for a backcountry guide she met on a trip they were supposed to take together, and he’s avoided any kind of casual socializing that doesn’t involve a broken Coleman stove or a frayed canvas tent ever since. His only close friend Dave, a volunteer firefighter, badgered him into coming to the annual firehouse cookout by promising a free case of the local IPA he likes, so he showed up an hour ago, planted himself at the farthest picnic table from the crowd, and has been trying to avoid small talk with neighbors he’s lived next to for 12 years.
He’s picking at a charred bratwurst slathered in too much mustard, the sticky vinyl of the table peeling under his forearms, when he spots her walking across the lawn. It’s the woman who dropped off a beat-up 1972 Kelty external frame pack at his shop three days prior, the one with the Orion constellation tattoo curling around her left wrist, who’d laughed so hard at his gruff warning that the pack’s repair would cost more than the beat-up Subaru she drove that she snort-laughed, a sound he’d replayed more times than he’d admit over the past 72 hours. He’d assumed she was a tourist passing through, would never see her again, so he’d stuffed down the stupid flutter in his chest when she left.
She’s carrying two sweating cans of iced tea, stepping over a wobbly tricycle left in the grass by a firefighter’s kid, and her sandal catches on a root. She stumbles forward, and he reacts before he thinks, pushing off the table to steady her, his palm brushing the soft curve of her waist for half a second before he pulls back like he’s been burned. She laughs, that same rough, unselfconscious snort, and leans against the edge of the table next to him, close enough that he can smell coconut sunscreen and pine soap on her skin. “Fancy seeing you here,” she says, and pushes one of the iced teas across the table to him, her fingers brushing his when he takes it. Her name’s Elara, she tells him, she’s in town for three months helping her aunt recover from a broken ankle she got hiking the Colorado National Monument, lives three blocks over from his shop, not a tourist at all.
He nods, takes a sip of the tea, sweet enough to make his teeth ache, and fights the urge to make an excuse to leave. He’s 14 years older than her, for Christ’s sake, still wears the same work boots he’s had for six years, has grease under his fingernails that never fully washes off, spends more time talking to 50-year-old stoves than he does to people. He tells himself he’s being ridiculous, that she’s just being polite, that the last thing he needs is to get involved with someone who’s only in town for a few months anyway, that he’ll just end up hurt again. But she doesn’t leave, she sits down on the bench next to him, their shoulders pressing together through their thin cotton shirts, and asks him about the pack, says she’s been dying to get out on the trails but doesn’t know the area well enough to hike alone, doesn’t want to end up like her aunt with a broken ankle.
He almost says he doesn’t do group hikes, almost makes up a lie about being busy all summer, but then she turns to look at him, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, the corner of her mouth tugged up in a teasing smile, and she says “I asked Dave about you, by the way. He said you’re a hermit who hasn’t hiked with anyone since your ex left. Prove him wrong.” The words hang in the hot summer air, the sound of a fire truck siren wailing off in the distance as the volunteers give the local kids a ride, the smell of grilled onions and charcoal drifting over from the food table. He feels that old twist of shame in his chest, the disgust he’s carried for years at how easily he let his ex’s leaving shut him down, how he let fear turn him into the guy who hides in his garage instead of living his life.
He doesn’t think about it, just nods. “I’ve got your pack finished,” he says. “We can test it out on Uncompahgre Saturday. Leave at 6 a.m., bring sunblock, I’ve got extra water and trail snacks.” She lights up, grinning so wide her cheeks dimple, and she bumps her knee against his under the table. “I’ll be there,” she says. Her aunt calls her name from across the lawn, waving her over to help carry a tray of potato salad, and she stands up, pausing for a second to tap the Orion tattoo on her wrist. “Don’t be late, hermit.”
He watches her walk across the grass, weaving between kids chasing each other with water guns, and takes another sip of iced tea. Dave walks over a minute later, holding two cold IPAs, and slaps him on the back so hard he almost spills his drink. Rafe doesn’t even roll his eyes, just takes the beer Dave hands him, twists off the cap, and leans back against the table, already mentally checking off the gear he’ll pack for Saturday morning.
