Javier Mendez, 57, has restored 112 vintage motorcycles in the 12 years he’s run his shop outside of New Braunfels, Texas, and he’s turned down almost as many favors from people who think a handwritten thank-you note counts as payment. He’s stubborn to a fault, still sleeps with the frayed collar of his late border patrol K9 partner Max under his pillow, and hasn’t let anyone get close enough to ask about the scar snaking up his left forearm since his divorce 7 years prior. He’s only at the county fire department chili cookoff because he donated a fully restored 1978 Honda CB750 as the grand raffle prize, and the fire chief had threatened to stop letting him use the station’s pressure washer for free if he bailed.
He’s leaning against the bed of his dented 2006 F150, sipping a lukewarm Shiner Bock and pretending to scroll through his phone when she trips over a tent stake half-buried in the grass. She’s the mayor’s wife, Clara, he’d been introduced to her two months prior at the town hall ribbon cutting for the new bike lane, and she’s wearing a sunflower-print sundress that hits just above her knees, strappy white sandals sinking an inch into the damp turf. The cup of chili in her hand sloshes, and a dollop of beef and bean smacks right in the center of his gray work shirt, right over the stitched patch of Max’s name above his pocket.
She freezes for half a second, then laughs, low and warm, and leans in before he can step back. She dabs at the stain with a crumpled paper napkin pulled from her clutch, her perfume wrapping around him first—jasmine and fresh cut citrus, the same scent as the tree in his grandma’s backyard when he was a kid—and then her hand brushes the skin of his chest where the top two buttons of his shirt are undone. Her nails are painted a soft pink, chipped at the edges, and she doesn’t apologize, just tilts her head up so her hazel eyes lock with his, close enough that he can count the faint freckles across her nose. “Heard you’re the only guy within 100 miles who knows how to fix pre-1980 Triumphs,” she says, the napkin still pressed to his shirt, her elbow brushing his ribs. “My dad’s 1972 Bonneville has been sitting in our garage for three years. My husband says it’s junk, says I should haul it to the scrap yard.”
Javier’s first instinct is to say no. He knows how small this town is, knows the mayor is already prickly about people questioning his policies, knows getting within 10 feet of his wife when no one else is around is the kind of drama he’s spent his whole adult life avoiding. But she’s still looking at him like she already knows he’ll say yes, like she can see the part of him that gets giddy when someone brings in a rusted bike no one else will touch, and he finds himself shrugging. “I’m booked solid for the next two months,” he says, and she grins, like she knows that’s not a no.
She shows up at his shop at 6:17 PM the following Tuesday, 17 minutes after he usually locks the front gate, holding a Tupperware of pecan pie in one hand and a set of old photos of the Triumph in the other. The shop smells like welding fumes and old motor oil, the radio on the workbench playing Johnny Cash’s *At Folsom Prison* low enough that they can hear the crickets chirping through the open bay door. She leans against the edge of his workbench while he flips through the photos, her shoulder brushing his every time she points out a detail of the bike, her bare calf pressing against his work boot for three full seconds before she shifts her weight.
He wants to tell her to leave. Wants to remind her she’s married, that the last thing he needs is the mayor calling the county inspector on his shop for made-up code violations, that he doesn’t do casual flings with people who have too much to lose. But then she asks about the Max patch on his shirt, and when he tells her about the K9 that took a knife to the gut protecting him during a border patrol stop 8 years prior, she doesn’t give him the awkward pitying smile everyone else does. She just nods, and says she knows what it’s like to love something that everyone else thinks is replaceable, tells him her husband has been cheating on her with his chief of staff for six months, that she’s been sleeping on the couch in the guest room since she found out.
The kiss is not some grand, dramatic thing. He’s holding a rusted carburetor from the parts bin, showing her what he’ll need to replace first, and their hands brush when she reaches out to take it, and before he can overthink it he’s leaning down, his calloused hand cupping the side of her face, and she’s kissing him back, her fingers tangling in the graying hair at the nape of his neck, tasting like sweet tea and the pecan pie she snuck a bite of 10 minutes earlier.
She files for divorce the following Monday, pays the first deposit for the Triumph restoration that same afternoon, and the mayor throws a fit at the town hall meeting three days later, calling Javier a lowlife grease monkey who steals other men’s wives. No one says anything, because half the town already knew the mayor was cheating, and the other half has bought a bike from Javier or had him fix theirs for half what the dealers in Austin charge. The mayor loses his reelection bid three months later by 42 points, moves to Dallas with his chief of staff, and no one brings up the drama again.
Javier passes her a cold Shiner Bock as she sands down the Bonneville’s faded blue fuel tank one Saturday evening, the setting sun gilding the edge of her smile, and he doesn’t even mind when she gets sawdust on his favorite work jeans.
