Javier “Javi” Mendez, 52, is a vintage camper restoration specialist based 10 minutes outside Buda, Texas, with a scar slashing across his left knuckle from a slip with a power sander three weeks prior and a bad habit of putting other people’s comfort ahead of his own, a flaw he’s carried since his ex-wife left him for a part-time handyman they hired at their old RV park 12 years before. He’s spent those 12 years avoiding anything that even resembles casual connection, sticking to small talk with clients, weekend football watch parties alone on his couch, and 12-hour workdays stripping paint from 1960s Shastas and Airstreams to keep his mind occupied.
He’s standing in line for brisket tacos at the tiny Buda food truck rally on a humid Thursday night, cold Modelo in a dented plastic cup, sweat beading at the hairline under his faded 2005 Longhorns national championship cap, when he hears that low, throaty laugh he’s been trying to stop replaying in his head for three weeks. He turns, and there’s Elara, wife of his newest high-paying client Harold, a 74-year-old retired oil exec who pays cash and leaves vintage socket sets as tips. Elara’s 48, with sun-streaked dark hair, a cutoff Willie Nelson tee, frayed denim shorts, and a tiny silver sunflower tattoo peeking out of the neckline of her shirt, and she cuts through the crowd of kids chasing each other with melting snow cones straight to him, stopping so close her bare upper arm brushes his bicep. The scent of coconut sunscreen and cheap vanilla body spray curls into his nose, sharp and sweet enough to make his throat go tight.
He mumbles a greeting, already tensing up. He’s been dodging her texts all week, the ones asking if she can drop off a vintage mosaic tile backsplash she found for the camper Harold is supposedly restoring for the two of them, the ones with little winky faces at the end. He likes Harold, doesn’t want to be the kind of homewrecker his ex had left him for, doesn’t want to blow a client relationship that’s going to cover his property taxes for the year. It feels wrong, even when she’d leaned across his workbench two weeks prior, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the full sunflower tattoo curling over her collarbone, and told him Harold never listened to a single thing she said about the camper, that he only cared about resale value, not making it feel like a home.
She tells him she bailed on the four-hour drive to Dallas for her sister’s graduation, since Harold decided last minute he had a golf tournament he couldn’t miss, and she didn’t feel like making the trip alone. They end up sharing a wobbly wooden picnic table off to the side, away from the loud group of high schoolers blasting country music from a portable speaker, their knees brushing under the table every time one of them shifts. She holds eye contact for a beat longer than necessary every time he speaks, laughs so hard at his story about the guy who tried to restore a 1972 Airstream with duct tape and prayer that she snorts, clapping a hand over her mouth so hard her elbow knocks his beer cup, sloshing a little Modelo onto his Carhartt jeans. She apologizes, dabbing at the wet spot with a napkin, her calloused palm (from the vegetable garden she keeps at Harold’s ranch) lingering on his thigh for a full two seconds before she pulls back.
Javi’s torn so bad his chest hurts, every instinct screaming to pack up his tacos and go home, to not mess this up, to not be the bad guy he’s spent 12 years terrified of becoming. But he hasn’t felt this light, this seen, in longer than he can remember, hasn’t talked to anyone about anything other than camper parts and college football in months. She tells him she’s known Harold was cheating on her with his 32-year-old golf instructor for two years, that she’s just waiting for their lake house to close escrow before she files for divorce, that she never had any intention of staying married to a man who forgot her birthday three years running. The tight knot of guilt in his chest loosens all at once, replaced by a warm, thrumming energy he’d forgotten he was capable of feeling.
The sky opens up all of a sudden, fat cold raindrops soaking through his cotton tee in 10 seconds flat, everyone at the rally scrambling to pack up coolers and corral kids, food truck workers slamming shut service windows so fast the metal clatters. Elara grabs his hand, her palm still warm even through the rain, and pulls him toward her beat-up forest green 1996 Bronco parked at the edge of the lot. He stumbles after her, holding his half-eaten taco in one hand and his crumpled cap in the other, laughing so hard he snorts too.
They sit in the Bronco for 10 minutes waiting for the worst of the rain to pass, the drumming on the roof so loud they have to lean in inches apart to hear each other talk. She leans in first, kissing him slow, her hand tangled in the curly hair at the nape of his neck, and he kisses her back, tastes lime and salt and Modelo on her tongue, no rush, no guilt, no voice in the back of his head telling him he’s doing something wrong. When the rain slows to a soft drizzle, she asks if she can come back to his shop to see the progress on the Shasta, to show him the tile backsplash she’s had tossed in the back of her Bronco for a week. He nods, opens the passenger door to step out so he can lead her to his truck, pausing when he spots a bright double rainbow arcing over the oak trees at the edge of the park, vivid against the dark storm clouds.
