Rico Marquez, 52, has restored 117 vintage campers in the eight years since his wife packed a duffel and drove off in the 1995 Winnebago they’d spent three years fixing up together. His flaw? He’s spent every day since building a routine so rigid, he turns down even casual fishing trips with his cousin if they fall outside his scheduled 6PM shop closing and 7PM frozen burrito dinner. He’s at the Ada County Fair on a sweltering late August afternoon only to pick up a rare 1968 Airstream hatch hinge he haggled for with a retired trucker that morning, stopping off at the beer tent first for a cold IPA to cut through the smell of fried dough and cow manure hanging thick in the air.
“Shit, I’m so sorry. These fried green tomatoes are worth breaking an ankle over, but I didn’t mean to take you down with me.” She holds out a crumpled paper napkin from her plate, and when he takes it, their fingertips brush. He notices the silver streak running through the front of her dark braided hair, the smudge of dirt on her left cheek, the way her work boots are caked with what looks like goat manure. He places her a second later—Lena, the new county extension agent he’d seen at the feed store a handful of times, the one whose 4H goat escaped two months prior and ate half the marigold beds outside the fair administration building.
She nods at the beer stain on his shirt. “You’re the guy who judged the vintage trailer contest last year, right? Gave first place to that guy with the Airstream who used particle board for the interior cabinets? I still give him hell for that. Cheater.” Rico snorts, surprised anyone paid that close attention. He’d gotten yelled at by three different contestants that day for docking points for shoddy work, and had left the fair early to avoid more arguments. He gestures to the last empty picnic table under a tattered shade awning, and she follows, sitting across from him. Their knees brush under the table when she shifts to let a kid carrying a cotton candy bigger than his head pass, and neither moves away immediately.
The band gets louder as they talk, so she leans in when he explains how he fixes rotted camper frames, her shoulder almost touching his, her breath smelling like peach iced tea and salt. She tells him she has a 1972 Volkswagen Westfalia her dad left her when he passed last spring, sitting in her driveway half-dismantled, that she’s been too scared to call anyone about fixing it, because most restorers she’s talked to quote her insane prices and talk down to her like she doesn’t know a screwdriver from a wrench. He teases her about the goat incident, and she shoves his arm playfully, her hand lingering on his bicep for a beat longer than necessary.
When he checks his watch, he realizes it’s almost 7PM, and his frozen burrito is sitting in his fridge at home, his shop already locked up for the night. He’s about to make an excuse to leave, to stick to his routine, when she nods toward the line of oak trees leading down to the small lake at the edge of the fairgrounds. The sun is starting to dip, painting the sky pale pink and tangerine. “Wanna walk down there before you go get your hinge? The sunset over the water is really nice this time of year. I won’t even make you talk about particle board cheaters the whole time.”
He hesitates, his first thought racing to the routine he’s guarded so tightly for eight years, the way any deviation has felt like a betrayal of the life he thought he’d have. Then he looks at her, the way she’s biting her lower lip like she’s half-expecting him to say no, the way she’s twisting the frayed cuff of her denim jacket draped over her arm, and he nods.
They walk slow, the crunch of gravel under their boots mixing with the distant sound of the fair’s Ferris wheel bell. When they reach the lake, she sits on a fallen cedar log half-buried in the sand, and pats the spot next to her. He sits, their shoulders pressing together as the sun dips lower. She pulls the last fried green tomato off her plate, splits it in half, and holds one piece out to him. He takes it, their fingers brushing for the third time that afternoon, and neither pulls away.
