Elias Voss, 52, makes his living restoring vintage campers out of the two-bay shop behind his western North Carolina home, and he hasn’t deviated from his 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. work schedule in the eight years since his divorce. His worst flaw, his ex had yelled during their final fight, is that he’d rather sand aluminum for 12 hours straight than hold a conversation that doesn’t involve sealant grades or original 1970s Airstream hubcaps. He didn’t argue with her then, and he still doesn’t, usually bailing on small town community events the second he spots someone he knows wants to corner him for gossip. He only showed up to the October food truck rally because the brisket truck only comes through once a quarter, and he’d had a craving for three weeks straight.
The line stretches 15 people deep, the air sharp with wood smoke and fried green tomato grease, a local bluegrass band plucking a slow Johnny Cash cover from the stage at the edge of the park. He’s got three work orders folded in the pocket of his worn Carhartt jacket, mentally mapping which camper needs new window seals first, when a warm, sweet-smelling liquid splashes across his left wrist. He hisses, jerking back, and comes face to face with Lila Marlow, his next door neighbor’s 32-year-old niece, who’s been housesitting two houses down for the past month. Her face flushes pink, she grabs a handful of napkins from the stack by the truck’s order window, and dabs at the hot apple cider on his skin before he can protest. Her hand is soft, lotion scented like vanilla and cinnamon, her flannel shirt unbuttoned just enough at the collar to show a smattering of freckles across the top of her chest. She rambles an apology, says she was distracted watching her golden retriever chase a squirrel, and he finds himself smiling, a thing he rarely does around strangers.
He’s only spoken to her twice before, both times when she dropped off misdelivered packages for her aunt, and he’d written her off as another loud, friendly 30-something who’d have zero interest in the parts of his life that matter. But she nods at the faded 2019 Vintage Camper Rally logo on his ball cap, says she’s been staring at the half-restored 1972 Airstream in his driveway for weeks, that her dad had the exact same model when she was a kid, they’d drive it up to the Smoky Mountains every summer. He can’t remember the last time someone asked him about a restoration project that wasn’t a client with a credit card in hand. They step off to the side to wait for their orders, her shoulder brushing his every time a group of kids runs past the narrow walkway, and he finds himself rambling about tracking down the original hubcaps for the Airstream from a collector in eastern Tennessee, driving three hours each way last weekend just to pick them up. She leans in when he talks, like every word he’s saying is fascinating, not boring shop talk, and he catches himself staring at the way her lip tucks between her teeth when she laughs.
She mentions her husband is deployed with the Army in Germany, he’s been gone six months, she’s got two more months of housesitting before she has to fly out to join him, and all her old high school friends moved away years ago so she’s been bored out of her mind. A cold gust of wind blows through the park, she shivers, and he almost offers her his jacket before he catches himself, guilt twisting tight in his chest. He’s never been the other guy, never so much as flirted with a married woman, and the 20 year age gap between them feels like a neon sign blinking “wrong” in the back of his head. But then she tilts her head, nods in the direction of their neighborhood, says she saw he had a fire pit in his backyard, asks if he’d mind if she brought a six pack of hazy IPA over later, she wants to hear more about the Airstream. His first instinct is to say no, he has work to do, he’s got an early start tomorrow, but then she blinks those big hazel eyes, and he finds himself saying yes before he can think better of it.
By the time she shows up at his back door an hour later, the sun has dipped fully below the mountains, the fire pit crackling with pine logs he split last weekend. She sits on the log bench next to him, closer than she needs to, their knees brushing every time she shifts to toss a new log on the fire. She says she’s been watching him work from the guest room window for weeks, that he looks so focused when he’s sanding the aluminum, like he cares about every tiny scratch, a thing her husband never does, always rushing through every task, never stopping to listen when she talks. She reaches over, runs a single finger along the thin, pale scar across his right knuckle, the one he got when a sheet of aluminum slipped and cut him last winter, and asks how he got it. He doesn’t pull away, the warmth of her finger seeping through his skin, the smell of her perfume mixing with the pine smoke, and for a second he thinks about telling her to leave, about how this is wrong, about how he doesn’t want to be the guy she cheats with. But then she leans in, kisses him soft, her hand curling around the back of his neck, and he doesn’t resist. The kiss tastes like beer and the cinnamon gum she’s chewing, and he can’t remember the last time someone touched him like that, like he’s something worth slowing down for.
They don’t talk about what comes next, don’t make promises, don’t overcomplicate the three months they have before she leaves. When she walks out to her car three hours later, she squeezes his hand, says she’ll stop by at 10 the next morning to help him sand the Airstream’s interior panels if he’s okay with it. He stands on the back porch until her taillights disappear around the curve of the road, the ghost of her kiss still warm on his mouth, and tucks the folded work order list from his jacket pocket into the pocket of his jeans, deciding the window seals can wait one extra day.
