Rafe Mendez is 52, runs a vintage motorcycle restoration shop out of a cinder block garage on the edge of Asheville, North Carolina. He’s spent the last six years turning down every invite to cookouts, fundraisers, and blind dates his buddies shove his way, still convinced dating after his wife Elaina’s sudden heart attack is some kind of moral failure. His biggest flaw? He’d rather argue with a seized 1965 Triumph engine for 12 hours straight than admit he’s lonely.
His old riding buddy Jimmie all but drags him to the fire department’s annual chili cookoff on a crisp October Saturday, saying if he hides in the shop one more weekend he’s going to turn into a grease-covered hermit that kids throw rocks at. Rafe grumbles the whole walk over, shoves his hands in the pockets of his oil-stained flannel, and beelines for the beer cooler the second they walk through the gate, planning to chug one can and bail before anyone tries to set him up with their sister or cousin or divorcee coworker.
He’s mid-swig of a frosty Pabst when he turns too fast, knocks right into a woman holding a paper bowl of three-alarm chili. The slosh hits the cuff of his flannel, bright red and steaming, and he curses under his breath, ready to apologize before he looks up. She’s grinning, not mad, hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, a streak of silver in her dark brown braid catching the hickory smoke from the grill off to the side. “Easy there, speed racer,” she says, dabbing at the stain with a crumpled napkin from her pocket, her knuckle brushing the scar on his forearm he got from a wreck on the Blue Ridge Parkway back in 2017. He can smell lavender hand cream mixed with cinnamon and chili powder, and his throat goes dry for a second, so dry he can’t get an apology out right away.
He recognizes her. Clara, the new part-time librarian who moved to town three months prior. He’d dropped off a box of old 1970s Cycle World magazines at the library the week before, and he’d stared at her from across the circulation desk for a full 10 seconds before he remembered how to speak. He’d left as fast as he could, kicking himself the whole drive back to the shop for even noticing how her sweater fit her shoulders, for feeling that dumb, fluttery pull he thought he’d buried with Elaina.
The old country band playing by the picnic tables cranks up a Johnny Cash cover, so she leans in closer to hear him when he finally mumbles an apology, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep, warm through the thin cream knit sweater she’s wearing. “Relax, I’ve spilled worse on far nicer clothes,” she says, nodding at the oil stains streaked across the front of his flannel. “You’re the motorcycle guy, right? The one who fixes those old British bikes that cost more than most people’s cars?”
He nods, and they fall into easy conversation, standing off to the side of the crowd, the noise of the cookoff fading into background static the longer they talk. He finds out she rides a beat-up 1978 Honda CB750 she bought for $800 off a guy in Knoxville, that she’s been trying to fix the sticky carburetors herself for two months and keeps messing it up. That she knew Elaina, volunteered with her at the town food bank for a year before Elaina died, that Elaina used to talk about him all the time, how he could fix anything with a wrench and a little patience, how she hoped he’d stop closing himself off once she was gone.
That line hits him like a punch to the chest, six years of tight, unspoken guilt unspooling fast, the war between loyalty and desire softening enough to let the latter win. She scribbles her number on a crumpled library receipt in sparkly purple pen, shoves it into his flannel pocket, her fingers brushing his chest as she pulls away. “Next Saturday, 10 a.m., my place. Bring your tools, I’ll bring carnitas tacos. No pressure,” she says, holding his gaze a beat longer than polite, no shyness in her smile, before she walks off to join her friends by the grill.
He stands there for a minute, fingers brushing the crumpled receipt in his pocket, ignoring Jimmie’s loud teasing from ten feet away. He texts her that night to confirm, then tucks his stained flannel on the hook by his workbench, making a quiet note not to wash it before he sees her.
