Roman Voss, 53, has restored 72 vintage camper vans out of his cinder block shop outside Asheville, North Carolina, in the eight years since his divorce. He’s stubborn to a fault, still refuses to download any dating apps, calls all singles mixers for people his age “boomer speed dating for people who forgot how to hold a conversation.” He’d rolled straight to the monthly downtown food truck rally from work that evening, still had chassis grease crusted under his left fingernails, wore a faded Johnny Cash tee that had a hole at the hem and scuffed work boots he’d owned since 2018. He was leaning against a split rail fence, halfway through a smoked brisket taco and a hazy IPA, when he spotted her.
Lena. His ex-wife’s first cousin. He’d only seen her a handful of times over the years, mostly at awkward family Christmas gatherings he’d dragged himself to before the divorce was final, but he’d never forgotten the pine tree tattoo wrapping around her left forearm, or the way she laughed so hard she snort-laughed when he’d told a dumb joke about a skunk nesting in a 1968 Airstream he’d been working on back in 2017. She waved before he could pretend he didn’t see her, weaved through the crowd of families and college kids carrying loaded nachos, stopped so close when she reached him he could smell coconut sunscreen and the cherry limeade she was sipping from a plastic souvenir cup.
The conflict hit him square in the chest, sharp and warm all at once. He’d spent eight years telling himself anyone tied to his ex was off limits, that even a friendly conversation would spiral into drama he didn’t have the energy for, that acting on the stupid quiet crush he’d carried on her since they first met was trashy, the kind of move a guy half his age would make to cause chaos. But when she laughed at his story about the 1972 VW Westfalia he was finishing up that had a full rat nest made of old lottery tickets stuffed in the dashboard, her hand landed on his arm, stayed there for three full seconds, her palm warm through the thin cotton of his tee, and every argument he had for walking away melted a little more. She said she was in town for a week, just ended a six year relationship with a lawyer who cared more about his country club membership than her, had rented a little log cabin half an hour up the Blue Ridge Parkway, asked if he knew any good hiking trails that didn’t have crowds of tourist families with screaming kids.
He almost lied. Almost said he had three vans due by the end of the week, no time to play tour guide. Then she leaned in a little closer, her breath fanning over his cheek when she said she’d always thought he was too good for her cousin, that she’d never forgotten him fixing her flat tire on the side of the highway after that 2015 family reunion when no one else would stop to help. The last of his resistance snapped. He said he was free the next morning, he could take her up to an overlook that only the locals knew about, show her the finished Westfalia first if she wanted, it had a little stove that made perfect camp coffee.
The crowd thinned out as the sun dipped below the mountains, the band packed up their gear, the food trucks started rolling down the street one by one. They’d migrated to the tailgate of his beat-up 2006 Ford F150, sitting shoulder to shoulder, their knees brushing every time one of them shifted. She reached over to brush a crumb of brisket off his jaw, her fingers lingering on his stubble for a beat, and he didn’t overthink it, just leaned in and kissed her. Slow at first, tentative, like they were both waiting for the other to pull away, then deeper when she tangled her hand in the back of his hair, he could taste cherry limeade and mint on her tongue, the rough denim of her cutoff shorts rubbed against his thigh when she shifted closer to him.
She gave him her number scribbled on a napkin from the taco truck when she left, kissed him one more time quick before she climbed into her Subaru, turned around halfway to her car and winked at him over her shoulder. He sat on the tailgate for another ten minutes after she pulled out of the parking lot, twisting the napkin in his fingers, the grease under his nails long forgotten, the warm tingle of her hand on his arm still lingering. He pulled out his old flip phone, typed her number in, saved it under “Lena – Pine Tattoo,” hit send on a text telling her he’d pick her up at 9 the next morning, extra coffee in the cup holder.
