Rafe Sorenson, 53, runs a vintage camper restoration shop out of a cinder block building on the edge of Austin, hasn’t worn a collared shirt that wasn’t stained with grease or wood sealant in six years, skipped the last three town cookoffs because he’d rather sand down a 1972 Airstream hull than make small talk with people he went to high school with. He only showed up this year because Earl, his fishing partner of 25 years, begged him to fill in as a last-minute pork shoulder judge, promised him a free half-brisket and all the Shiner Bock he could drink. The air reeks of hickory smoke and sweet rib rub, the gravel parking lot of the community center crunches under his scuffed work boots, and he’s already halfway through his second beer by the time he moseys over to Earl’s booth to say hi.
He expects to see Earl’s usual crew of grizzled old BBQ guys, but the first person he spots is Lila, Earl’s niece. The last time he saw her, she was 16, braces on her teeth, covered in mosquito bites, complaining the whole time Earl dragged them out on a three-day fishing trip on Lake Travis. Now she’s 28, sun streaked in her dark hair, cutoffs frayed at the hem, a faded Willie Nelson tank top sticking slightly to her shoulders with sweat, hauling a full rack of ribs out of the offset smoker like it weighs nothing. She turns, almost runs right into him, her bare forearm brushing his, the skin warm and soft where it presses against the sunburned hair on his arm. She freezes for half a second, then grins, the same gap between her two front teeth he remembers from when she was a kid. “Rafe? Damn, you still wear that beat-up Stetson? I thought Earl was exaggerating when he said you haven’t changed a bit.”
He laughs, but his throat feels tight. He’s spent the last eight years since his divorce writing off any flicker of attraction to anyone younger than 40 as sad, desperate midlife crisis crap, the kind of garbage he made fun of his old coworker for doing when he left his wife for a 26-year-old barista. He steps back a little, puts more space between them, nods at the smoker. “Earl around? I came to collect that brisket he promised me.” She tilts her head, like she notices him pulling away, her dark eyes glinting a little in the sun coming through the tent awning. “Had to run to the hardware store. The smoker thermometer crapped out ten minutes ago. Said he’d be back in 20. You can wait, if you want. I’ll even give you a sample of the burnt ends first, if you’re nice.”
He nods, leans against the wooden counter of the booth, tries to look casual, even as his pulse is picking up for the first time in years. He watches her move around the booth, wiping down the counter, grabbing a paper plate, piling a few crispy burnt ends on it. The radio on the counter is playing old Waylon Jennings, loud enough to drown out the noise of the crowd around them. She holds the plate out to him, then picks one up with a toothpick, holds it up to his mouth before he can reach for it. “C’mon, judge it. Tell me if it’s good enough to win.” He leans in, takes a bite, the meat melting on his tongue, a little bit of sauce smearing on the corner of his mouth. Before he can reach up to wipe it off, she’s leaning in, her thumb brushing across his lower lip, wiping the sauce away, then popping her thumb in her mouth to lick it off, never breaking eye contact.
He freezes, every thought in his head going blank for a full three seconds. He should step back, tell her that’s not appropriate, that she’s Earl’s niece, that he’s too old for this, that people are watching. But he doesn’t. “You know,” she says, leaning against the counter next to him, close enough that he can smell the coconut shampoo in her hair mixed with the hickory smoke on her clothes, “I had the biggest crush on you when I was 16. Thought you were the coolest guy alive, fixing up those old campers, playing guitar by the campfire. I used to beg Earl to bring you on fishing trips just so I could see you.” He laughs, shaking his head, the guilt mixing with the warm fizz of the beer in his stomach. “That’s… that’s crazy. I thought you were just a kid that complained the whole time about mosquitos.” She snorts, nudging his shoulder with hers. “I was complaining on purpose so you’d give me that extra bottle of bug spray you kept in your truck. Duh.”
He hears Earl’s truck rumble into the parking lot before he sees it, and for half a second he panics, like he’s a kid getting caught making out with his girlfriend in the backseat. But Lila just grins, grabs a pen off the counter, scribbles her phone number on a napkin, shoves it in the pocket of his work shirt before he can say anything. “Earl owes you that brisket, right? Bring it by my place tomorrow. I’m housesitting for him while he’s out on that fishing trip next week. We can eat it, watch a movie, you can tell me all about that Airstream you’re restoring right now.” He blinks, staring at her, and she laughs, pushing him playfully toward the edge of the booth right as Earl walks up, holding a new thermometer in one hand, a cold soda in the other.
He says hi to Earl, takes the wrapped half-brisket Earl shoves at him, mumbles something about getting back to his shop later, walks back to his truck with the brisket in one hand, the napkin with her phone number crumpled in his other pocket, the ghost of her thumb on his lip still lingering. He turns the key in the ignition, the radio blaring the same Waylon song he heard at the booth, pulls out of the parking lot, already tapping out a text to her before he even merges onto the main road.
