Rico Marquez, 52, has restored 117 vintage motorcycles out of his cinder block garage in east Austin since his wife left him eight years ago. He can tear down a 1972 Honda CB750 engine in 47 minutes flat, can spot a fake chrome fender from 20 feet away, and has not once voluntarily opened a social media app since he found his ex-wife packing her bags for a travel influencer she’d met on TikTok. His biggest flaw, he’d admit if he was drunk enough, is that he judges anyone who posts more than one photo a year online by the worst possible interpretation of their feed.
It’s 82 degrees at the quarterly east side food truck rally, thick humidity sticking the collar of his faded work shirt to his neck, brisket grease crusted under his fingernails that he couldn’t scrub out even after three rounds of Lava soap. He’s got a cold Shiner in one hand and a paper tray loaded with two carnitas tacos in the other, avoiding the group of college kids taking selfies in front of the elote truck, when he spots Clara Bennett. She’s his next door neighbor, moved in three months prior, he’s only ever waved at her from his driveway when he’s hauling bike parts. He’d rolled his eyes so hard he’d gotten a headache two weeks prior when his buddy sent him a 30 second reel of her doing a burlesque number at the public library’s summer reading fundraiser, fringe dress swinging, red lipstick smudged at the corners, and he’d typed a snarky comment under his buddy’s throwaway account about “performative charity.”
She spots him before he can slip around the back of the taco truck. She waves, and he’s stuck, so he nods back. She cuts through the crowd, cherry limeade in a plastic cup in her hand, cutoff flannel hanging loose over a plain white tank top, frayed jean shorts and scuffed cowboy boots, silver hoops glinting in the sun. When she stops next to him, her shoulder brushes his bicep, and he can smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, sweet tang of cherry on her breath. She has to lean in to yell over the mariachi band set up at the end of the lot, and her hair brushes his cheek when she does. “I’ve been meaning to corner you,” she says, grinning, and his throat goes dry. “My dad left me a 1968 Triumph Bonneville when he died last year, it’s been sitting in my garage gathering dust. I saw your work hauling that Harley last week, figured you’d be the guy to ask.”
He fumbles his taco tray a little, and she hands him a crumpled paper napkin before he can drop it. Their knuckles brush when he takes it, and he notices her nails are painted the same dark, chipped red they were in that reel. He’s suddenly hyper aware of how messy he looks, grease on his jaw, hole in the knee of his jeans, and he’s torn between the bitter voice in his head that says she’s just going to post the whole interaction for clout, and the louder, dumber part of him that wants to lean in closer, to find out if her hair smells as good as it looks. He makes a dumb, sharp joke about how she could probably find a dozen influencer guys on TikTok who’d fix it for free for a shoutout, and her grin fades a little. She takes a sip of her limeade, and her voice is lower when she speaks, so only he can hear it over the music. “Funny you say that. I recognized your username on that comment on my fundraiser reel, by the way. You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”
He goes bright red, hot embarrassment crawling up his neck. He starts to stammer out an apology, and she holds up a hand to stop him. “That reel you made fun of? It raised $12,000 for kids who can’t afford summer reading camps and free book deliveries. I did that number in a dress my grandma made me, for the town I grew up in. I get why you’re bitter, by the way. Your ex told the whole neighborhood why she left when she came to pick up her last box of stuff. I’ve avoided dating guys who think any woman with a personality online is a whore for the last two years, so we’re both carrying stupid baggage.” She touches his forearm lightly, her palm warm through the thin cotton of his shirt, and the bitter voice in his head goes quiet. He can feel the callus on the side of her thumb, from turning pages, he realizes, and it’s the first time he’s wanted to touch someone on purpose in almost a decade.
He apologizes properly, admits he’s been an ass, that he’s spent so much time hiding in his garage working on bikes that he forgot how to talk to people who don’t know what a carburetor is. She laughs, and the sound cuts through the noise of the crowd, bright and warm. She nods at the empty patch of grass next to the oak tree behind them, says “C’mon, sit. I bought extra churros, you can ask me about the fringe dress if you’re nice. No judgment, as long as you promise to look at my Triumph this weekend.”
He sits, and they talk for two hours, until the food trucks start flipping their signs to closed, the sky fading from bright gold to soft pink and purple at the edges. The mariachi band packs up, replaced by a guy with an acoustic guitar playing old country covers, and most of the crowd drifts off. He offers to walk her home, and she accepts, linking her arm through his when they cross the street, her shoulder pressed tight to his. When they get to her porch, she pulls a crumpled photo of the Triumph out of her purse, hands it to him, their fingers brushing again when he takes it. He tells her he’ll be over at 9 a.m. Saturday, no charge, and she grins, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ll make blueberry pancakes. I saw you buy three pints of them at H-E-B last week, so I know you like them.”
He laughs, tucking the photo into the pocket of his flannel, and turns to walk the three doors down to his house. The humidity has faded a little, a cool breeze blowing off the creek a block over, and he doesn’t even think about his ex, or TikTok, or stupid comments on reels the whole way down the sidewalk. He fumbles his keys out of his pocket when he gets to his porch, looks up, and sees her leaning in her doorway, watching him, and she waves before she closes the door behind her.
