Javi Mendez, 57, makes his living patching dents, restringing curtains, and rewiring 1960s-era travel trailers for folks with more nostalgia than mechanical sense. He’s spent the last six years holed up in his hill country barn shop, only leaving for supply runs and the occasional fishing trip with his buddy Ray, ever since his wife Linda died from ovarian cancer mid-treatment. His biggest flaw? He’s stubborn enough to pretend loneliness doesn’t eat at him, even on nights he eats cold cereal for dinner and talks to his border collie like she’s the only person who gets him.
Ray practically had to drag him to the town beer garden’s annual trailer showcase and chili cookoff, shoving a cold IPA in his hand and telling him he’d be an idiot to hide the 1962 Airstream Bambi he’d spent 10 months restoring for a Dallas couple. Javi had grumbled the whole drive over, already counting the minutes until he could go home, kick off his work boots, and watch a rerun of *Gunsmoke* without making small talk with strangers.
He’s leaning against the polished aluminum side of the Bambi, picking at a loose thread on his frayed flannel, when he spots her. She’s standing three feet away, running a calloused index finger along the curve of the trailer’s front, like she’s touching something sacred. Her hair is streaked with gray at the temples, pulled back in a messy braid, and she’s wearing a faded 1980s Willie Nelson tour tee tucked into high-waisted denim, her work boots caked in red hill country mud. She looks up, catches him staring, and smiles so wide the corners of her eyes crinkle.
Javi’s throat goes dry. He recognizes her. Mara Carter, Linda’s younger cousin, the one who’d shown up to the funeral with a tupperware of Linda’s favorite pecan pie and didn’t push him to talk when he stood on the porch staring at the oak tree for an hour. He’d thought she moved to Oregon years ago. He almost turns and walks the other way, his brain screaming that talking to her is a betrayal, that any sort of connection to Linda’s old life is off-limits, that he doesn’t deserve to feel anything close to excitement when she starts walking toward him.
“Javi, right?” Her voice is softer than he remembers, low and warm, with the same faint East Texas drawl Linda had. She holds out her hand to shake, and when their fingers brush, he feels a jolt run up his arm, sharp and warm, the kind of spark he hasn’t felt since he was 19 and asked Linda out to a drive-in movie. She smells like vanilla lip balm and cedar, like she’s been splitting firewood lately. “I recognized the Bambi. Linda used to show me photos of it all the time, said you two were gonna drive it up to Alaska when you retired.”
The mention of Linda makes his chest tight for half a second, but it doesn’t hurt like it usually does. He nods, wiping his palm on his work pants before he shakes her hand properly. “Thought you were in Portland. Running a bookstore or something?”
“Was.” She leans against the Airstream next to him, her shoulder brushing his bicep when a group of kids runs past chasing a golden retriever. She doesn’t move away. “Moved back three months ago to take care of my mom. She passed from lung cancer two months back. Took the part-time librarian job here, bought a beat-up 1970 Scotty trailer to fix up and live in. Been watching your YouTube tutorials to try to get the plumbing right, but I’m this close to just filling the sink with ice and calling it a cooler.” She holds her thumb and index finger an inch apart, grinning, and Javi laughs before he can stop himself.
They talk for 45 minutes straight, standing there while the bluegrass band on stage plays twangy covers of old Johnny Cash songs, the smell of smoked paprika and cinnamon drifting over from the chili and dessert booths. Javi finds himself telling her things he hasn’t told anyone, not even Ray: how he’d almost stopped working on the Bambi after Linda died, how he still keeps her favorite pink coffee mug on the shelf in his shop, how he talks to her sometimes when he’s sanding dents. She doesn’t look at him like he’s crazy. She just nods, and tells him she still talks to her mom when she’s shelving books at the library, that she thinks it’s weirder to pretend the people you love just disappear when they die.
He’s halfway through his second IPA, his brain fighting between the voice that says this is wrong, that you don’t get to be happy after the person you promised to spend your life with is gone, and the louder, softer voice that he knows is Linda’s, the one that always called him an idiot for being too stubborn to take good things when they came his way. Mara tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and he notices her nail polish is chipped pale pink, that she has a tiny scar on her jaw from falling off a horse when she was 12, that she keeps looking at his mouth when he talks, like she’s paying attention to every word.
“I could come take a look at the Scotty, if you want.” The words slip out before he can stop them. He almost backtracks, says he’s busy, says he’s got a dozen projects lined up, but then she lights up, her eyes going wide, and she leans in a little closer, so close he can feel her breath on his cheek when she talks.
“Are you serious? I’ll pay you. I’ll even bring you that pecan pie recipe Linda gave me, I make it every Sunday.” She pulls her phone out of her back pocket, and when she hands it to him to type in his number, her hand rests on his forearm for three full seconds, warm and steady, the callus on her index finger rubbing gently against the fabric of his flannel. He can feel the heat of her hand through the cloth, and his skin prickles, like he’s been standing out in the sun too long.
She takes her phone back, types a quick text so he has her number, and says she’s got to go judge the chili contest, the organizer’s been waving her over for five minutes. She waves over her shoulder as she walks away, and Javi stands there holding his beer, watching her weave through the crowd, the bluegrass band switching to a slow, soft cover of *Always on My Mind*. A breeze blows through the oak trees lining the beer garden, carrying the smell of jasmine from the bush by the entrance, and he realizes his cheeks hurt from smiling, the first real, unforced smile he’s had in six years.
He tucks his phone back into his work pants pocket, takes a long sip of his now-warm IPA, and for the first time in half a decade, he’s actually looking forward to tomorrow.
