Rafe Mendez, 57, has restored 32 vintage travel trailers in the eight years since he moved to the Texas Hill Country, and he’s avoided exactly that many potential first dates in the same window. Hyper-independent to a fault, he’d rather sand aluminum hulls until his knuckles bleed than subject himself to small town gossip mill scrutiny, especially since his ex-wife’s aunt still runs the most popular breakfast spot in town. He only showed up to the annual town chili cookoff because his best friend bribed him with a free case of Shiner Bock, and he’d only entered his chili on a dare, so when he’s called up for third place, he’s half-embarrassed, half-amused as he accepts the crummy plastic trophy and a $25 gift card to the local feed store.
He’s leaning against the side of his beat-up 2004 Ford F-150, towel wiping the last of the chili grease off his jeans, when he hears a laugh he hasn’t heard in 22 years, not since his wedding reception. He looks up, and Lila Marquez is standing 20 feet away, holding a frozen margarita in a neon plastic cup, copper streaks in her dark hair catching the golden October sun. She’s his ex-wife’s first cousin, the one who snuck into his garage during the wedding to check out his 1968 Triumph Bonneville, who told him she thought he was way too cool for her cousin back when everyone was still drunk on cake and champagne. She’s wearing a faded Willie Nelson t-shirt and scuffed cowboy boots, and there’s a smudge of chili powder high on her left cheek.
She spots him before he can duck behind the truck bed, and her grin widens as she walks over, boots crunching over peanut shells and discarded paper napkins on the grass. She stops so close he can smell coconut sunscreen and tequila over the thick haze of smoked pork and chili powder hanging over the field. “Rafe Mendez. I knew that was your name on the entry form. No one else around here puts that much ancho chile in their pot.” Her voice is a little raspier than he remembers, like she’s spent years laughing too loud or singing along to too many loud country shows.
He’s suddenly hyper-aware of the sawdust crusted under his fingernails, the small tear in the knee of his jeans. He’s torn between stepping back to put a polite distance between them, the kind that keeps gossip at bay, and leaning in a little closer, because he hasn’t felt this off-kilter, this curious, in years. He gestures to her cheek before he can overthink it. “You got a little chili powder there.” He lifts his thumb, hesitates for half a second, then brushes it off, the skin of her cheek soft and warm under his calloused finger. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t step back, just holds his gaze, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Thanks. Tasted a guy’s brisket chili and may have gotten a little overenthusiastic.” She leans against the truck bed next to him, their shoulders brushing when she shifts her weight to take a sip of her margarita. She tells him she moved to town three months prior, took the elementary school art teacher position, left her abusive ex-husband in Austin and needed a fresh start far away from people who knew their business. She says she asked about him at the feed store last week, heard he restored trailers, and she’s been looking for a small one to live in while she saves up for a little house on the edge of town.
Every alarm in Rafe’s head is blaring. Dating his ex-wife’s cousin is the exact kind of drama he’s spent eight years running from. The breakfast regulars will talk about it over pancakes for six months straight, his ex will hear about it, call him up screaming, half the town will side with her family. He opens his mouth to make an excuse, to tell her he’s swamped with work right now, that he doesn’t have any trailers ready for sale, but she reaches out and taps the plastic third-place trophy sitting on the truck bed next to him, her finger brushing his for half a second, and the words die in his throat.
“You ever give tours of your shop?” She asks, like she can tell he’s overthinking it, like she doesn’t care about any of the drama he’s already cataloging in his head. “I’d love to see what you’re working on. I heard you have a 1972 Airstream Sovereign almost done.”
He agrees before he can talk himself out of it. They leave the cookoff half an hour later, her riding in the passenger seat of his truck, singing along to the old Johnny Cash cassette he has stuck in the tape deck. When they pull up to his barn, the golden hour light is slanting through the open garage doors, hitting the polished aluminum of the Airstream so it glows like silver. He walks her over to it, running his hand along the curved hull, pointing out the new subfloor he laid, the custom oak cabinets he built by hand. She steps up behind him, her chest brushing his back when she leans in to get a better look at the tile backsplash he installed, and when he turns around, she’s so close their noses almost touch.
She kisses him first, slow, no rush, the faint taste of lime and tequila on her lips. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t overthink the gossip, the family drama, the thousand reasons he should step back. All he can think about is how she’s the first person in years who didn’t ask him about his ex within five minutes of meeting him, who cared about the work he put into the trailers, who thought his over-spiced chili was good enough to win a prize.
They climb into the Airstream after a minute, sitting on the built-in velvet bench by the window, drinking the cold Shiner he had stashed in the mini fridge for late work nights. She tells him she kept a photo of his old Triumph for years, that she always thought his ex was an idiot for leaving a guy who could fix anything and made her laugh so hard she snort-laughed at the wedding. He tells her he hasn’t let anyone sit in the Airstream before, that he was planning to sell it to a couple from Dallas next week.
He doesn’t mention the Dallas couple the rest of the night. He listens to her talk about the murals she’s painting in the school cafeteria, about how she loves driving the back roads at sunset to look at the wildflowers. He reaches over to lace his calloused fingers through hers, and for the first time in almost a decade, he doesn’t make a plan to push someone away before they can leave.
