Mace Kolcheck, 61, restores vintage campers out of his Portland bungalow’s cinder block garage, a trade he picked up after quitting his high school shop teaching job the same week his ex-wife moved out 12 years prior. His worst flaw, one he’d never admit aloud, was that he’d let his petty grudge against her turn him into a recluse: he’d skipped every block party, neighborhood cleanup, and potluck since she left, convinced running into her would ruin the quiet peace he’d carved out. He only showed up to this end-of-summer bash because his former 10th grade student Javi banged on his door at 4 p.m. holding a foil pan of smoked ribs and threatened to leave the entire thing on his porch if he didn’t mingle for at least an hour.
He’d seen her before, carrying armfuls of mystery novels into her house at dusk, pulling weeds in her front yard in paint-splattered overalls, but he’d never spoken to her, too wrapped up in self-imposed isolation to bother. He told her the shirt was old, no harm done, and she laughed, a warm, throaty sound that cut through the party noise, and said she owed him a drink to make up for it. They migrated to the edge of the block, sitting on the curb a few feet from the crowd, their knees brushing every time one shifted to watch the kids’ water balloon fight. She told him she’d bought a beat-up 1978 Scotty Sportsman camper on a whim six months prior, that it rotted in her side yard because every mechanic she called quoted a price she couldn’t afford, and that she’d spent weeks watching him carry chrome bumpers and wood paneling into his garage, wondering if he did side work.
He tensed immediately. He hadn’t taken a client in 12 years, hadn’t let anyone else dictate how he spent his time in the garage, that space the only thing that had felt like his after his ex left. He was halfway through making an excuse about being too busy when he looked over at her, cheeks pink from sangria and the last of the summer sun, and the words died in his throat. He wanted to say yes. The thought hit him like a freight train, sharp and unexpected, and he fought the urge to stand up and walk home, retreat to his quiet garage where no one could ask anything of him, where he didn’t have to risk being left again.
He was still debating it when his ex walked over, smile sharp and fake, her husband hovering two steps behind. “Didn’t think you ever left that cave of yours, Mace,” she said, tone sweet enough to rot teeth, eyes flicking between him and Elara like she was waiting for him to fumble.
His jaw tightened. He’d practiced a hundred snappy comebacks for this exact moment over the years, but all vanished the second Elara slipped her hand into his, palm warm and calloused from turning book pages and pulling weeds, and squeezed his fingers just hard enough to ground him. “He’s been helping me figure out my camper,” she said, tone even, no bite, no uncertainty, “we were just talking about grabbing breakfast tomorrow to go over plans. Sorry to cut this short, but we’re supposed to catch the park fireworks in ten minutes.”
His ex stared for a second, huffed, and walked away without another word.
Mace stared at Elara, his hand still in hers, too shocked to speak for a full beat. She grinned, let go of his hand, but her pinky lingered on his knuckles for a second before she pulled away entirely. “I’ve heard the gossip from the ladies down the street,” she said, shrugging like she hadn’t just defused a bomb he’d carried for over a decade, “she’s a piece of work. Figured you didn’t feel like getting into it with her tonight.”
He didn’t hesitate, not even for a second. “Breakfast sounds good,” he said, “and I’ll come look at your Scotty tomorrow afternoon, no charge, as long as you bring a pitcher of that peach sangria.”
She laughed, pulled a crumpled napkin out of her jeans pocket, scrawled her number on it with a purple ballpoint, and pressed it into his palm. He held it tight as they walked back to watch the fireworks, the paper warm from her hand, the faint smell of jasmine still clinging to his flannel sleeve.
He walked back to his house an hour later, empty rib pan in one hand, her number in the other, and the first thing he did when he stepped inside was yank the crumpled list of petty grievances against his ex off the fridge and toss it in the trash under the sink. He pulled a cold IPA from the fridge, leaned against the counter, and smiled at the faint sound of Elara’s laugh drifting over the backyard fence.
