Elias Voss, 52, makes his living restoring vintage travel trailers out of a cinder block shop on two scrubby acres outside Flagstaff. He’s avoided casual connections for eight years, ever since his wife left him for a real estate agent who promised her a house without grease under the kitchen counters and a social calendar that didn’t revolve around swap meets for old RV parts. His biggest flaw, he’d admit if he was drunk enough, is assuming every woman who smiles at him only wants free labor on their rig. He’s eaten enough cold dinners alone to be wary of anyone who gets too close too fast.
He’s perched on a splintered picnic table at the local feed store’s weekly craft beer pop-up when she walks over, late August monsoon mist hanging thick in the air, mesquite smoke curling off the bratwurst grill behind her. She’s his new neighbor, moved in three weeks prior, runs a mobile pet grooming service out of a beat-up white van. He’d ignored the handwritten note she taped to his shop door two weeks back, asking if he could take a look at her 1972 Airstream’s faulty water pump, already mentally drafting a quote for double his usual rate before he’d even finished reading it.
She holds up a can of sour ale, nods at the empty seat across from him. “Mind if I crash? Every other table’s full of ranchers arguing about hay prices.” Her voice is rough, like she spends half her day yelling over barking dogs, which he figures she does. He nods, shoves his half-eaten brat to the side to make space. She sits down closer than he expects, her worn work boot brushing his calf under the table when she shifts to set her can down. He tenses, already waiting for the question about the Airstream.
She doesn’t ask. Instead she nods at the faded Sturgis 2001 patch sewn to the shoulder of his work flannel. “I was there that year. Rode pillion on my brother’s Harley. A storm just like this blew through, we slept under a tarp in a field full of drunk bikers and loose horses. Worst hangover of my life.” He blinks, stares at her for a second. He hasn’t talked to anyone about that Sturgis trip since his ex left, she’d hated every second of it, complained the whole ride home about the dust in her hair.
He notices the streaks of silver at her temples, the dog hair caked to the cuff of her jeans, the chipped navy nail polish on her fingers. She passes him a napkin when a drop of his IPA dribbles down his wrist, her fingers brushing his forearm for a beat longer than necessary. He can smell lavender hand lotion mixed with dog shampoo and the mesquite smoke clinging to her jacket, and for the first time in years, he doesn’t immediately pull away.
When she finally mentions the Airstream, she laughs, holding her hands up like she’s surrendering. “I already paid some kid from the RV shop down the road to fix the pump. The note was just an excuse to talk to you. I saw you out in your yard last week, blaring Johnny Cash while you sanded that old Shasta you’ve got parked out front. Figured you weren’t half as grumpy as you look when you’re scowling at your power tools.”
The tension drains out of his shoulders so fast he almost slumps forward. He laughs, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months. “Fair. I’ve had so many people hit me up for free work I stopped assuming anyone just wants to say hi.” She snorts, takes a sip of her beer, their knees brushing again under the table, this time neither of them pulls away.
The mist picks up, fat cold raindrops starting to spot the picnic table. The ranchers clear out fast, the guy running the grill starts packing up his supplies, but neither of them moves. She leans in, voice dropping a little, like she’s sharing a secret. “I got a bag of deep fried Oreos in my cooler in the van. You got that Cash record still handy? We could eat them on your porch before the rain really hits.”
He hesitates for half a second, the old instinct to make an excuse, to say he’s got work to do, to lock himself back in his shop alone, flashes through his head. Then he looks at her, grinning, rain drops dotting the top of her hair, and nods. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
The walk back to his place is three minutes down a gravel road, their shoulders brushing the whole way, the jingle of her dog grooming scissors in her jacket pocket mixing with the low rumble of thunder in the distance. The rain picks up a little, soaking the cuffs of his jeans, but he doesn’t mind. He hasn’t felt that light, fluttery twist in his chest since he was a kid sneaking into drive-in movies with his high school girlfriend.
They climb the steps to his front porch, he pulls two folding lawn chairs out from behind the stack of trailer parts by the door, she pulls the crumpled paper bag of Oreos out of her jacket pocket, hands him one. It’s still warm, chocolate oozing out of the fried dough when he bites into it, so sweet it makes his teeth ache, and he makes a face that makes her snort so hard soda comes out of her nose. A powdered sugar crumb sticks to the corner of his mouth, and she reaches over, wiping it off with her thumb, the touch slow, intentional, no apology or awkward laugh after. He reaches for the portable record player he keeps on the porch shelf, pulls out his beat up copy of *At Folsom Prison*, drops the needle. The opening note of “Folsom Prison Blues” rings out just as the first heavy, loud raindrop hits the metal awning over his porch.
