Rafe Mendez, 57, has made a career out of bringing beat-up vintage campers back from the dead. He works 12 hour days out of his garage in east Austin, grease permanently crusted under his thumbnail beds, a half-empty can of Lone Star never far from his workbench, and for eight years, that’s all he’s had. His wife, Elena, died in a car crash in 2016, and he’d retreated so far into his work that even his own sister started calling him a hermit. His only flaw, one he’d admit to if pressed, is that he’d rather argue with a rusted 1970s Airstream frame than make small talk with a neighbor.
He only showed up to the block party because his 22-year-old niece, in town for a week before starting grad school, had practically dragged him off his work stool, saying if he spent one more night talking to a camper instead of a human she was going to list his house on Zillow as a senior co-op. He’d showed up in his scuffed work boots, jeans dotted with bondo, holding a lukewarm beer he’d grabbed from his fridge, and planted himself by the line of tiki torches as far from the bounce house and screaming kids as he could get. The HOA had spent three months fighting over lifting the food truck ban for the event, half the old guard on the block had boycotted entirely, complaining food trucks would attract “the wrong crowd” and tank property values. Rafe had voted to lift the ban, mostly just to piss off the HOA president who’d tried to fine him six months prior for parking a half-restored Airstream in his driveway.
That’s where he first saw Marisol. She was the owner of the empanada truck parked at the edge of the party, wiping sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, wearing a faded 1980s Willie Nelson tour tee and cutoff denim shorts, a tattoo of a flathead screwdriver curling around her left wrist. He noticed the tattoo first, because he had the exact same model screwdriver in the top drawer of his workbench, uses it every single day. She was laughing at something a kid said, handing over a cheese empanada wrapped in foil, and when she looked up, her eyes locked with his for half a second before she smiled, slow and easy, like she knew exactly who he was.
He tried to look away, stared at the crackle of the tiki torch flame, but his niece was already yanking his arm toward the truck, saying she’d smelled beef empanadas from the front yard. When they got to the window, Marisol leaned out, and Rafe could smell coconut shampoo and fried garlic coming off her, warm and sweet. “You’re Rafe, right?” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m Marisol, just moved next door last month. Saw your name on the package the mailman left on your porch by mistake last week. Also, heard you’re the guy who fixes old campers.”
Rafe nodded, suddenly unable to think of anything to say. When she handed him his beef empanada, their fingers brushed, and he felt the rough callus on the pad of her thumb, the same kind of callus he had on his own from gripping power tools all day. “Got the same grease stain under my nails,” she said, nodding at his hands, grinning. “Fryer oil won’t come out for shit, no matter how much dish soap I use. I bought a 1972 Scotty camper last month to tow behind the truck, but the wheel well’s rusted out, and I can’t find anyone who knows how to fix old ones without charging me an arm and a leg.”
The conflict hit him fast, tight in his chest. He’d told himself eight years ago he wasn’t going to let anyone new in, that work was enough, that casual connections just led to more pain when they left. He almost said he was booked solid for the next six months, that he didn’t take side jobs, but then she leaned in a little closer, the edge of her tee brushing his forearm, and he could hear the excitement in her voice when she talked about taking the camper out to Big Bend for weekends, and he couldn’t make the lie come out. “I can come take a look after the party,” he said, before he could overthink it.
By the time the party started winding down, the sun was dipping low over the oak trees, painting the sky pink and tangerine, crickets chirping loud in the grass. He followed her next door to her driveway, where the beat-up Scotty was parked, faded blue paint chipping along the sides. They crouched down next to the rusted wheel well, their shoulders pressed tight together, the cool metal of the camper siding brushing his other arm. He reached for the rusted bolt holding the wheel well cover on at the same time she did, their hands overlapping, and neither of them pulled away.
She tilted her head up to look at him, her eyes dark in the fading light, no awkwardness, no hesitation, just quiet heat. He didn’t think about the eight years he’d spent alone, didn’t think about the guilt he’d carried for even thinking about kissing someone else, didn’t think about the stack of work orders waiting on his workbench. He leaned in, kissed her slow, and she tasted like lime and the mango seltzer she’d been sipping all night, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, callus rough against his skin.
When they pulled away, she laughed, soft, and brushed a fleck of bondo off his cheek. “I’ve got a six pack of cold Modelo in my fridge,” she said, nodding toward her front door. “We can talk rates after we drink a couple.” Rafe nodded, already forgetting the half-finished beer he’d left sitting on the party table, or the fact that he’d planned to spend the night stripping paint off an Airstream shell. He followed her up the driveway, the screen door slamming shut behind them when they stepped inside.
