Marlon Rios, 59, has run his vintage motorcycle restoration shop out of his east Austin garage for 17 years. He hasn’t voluntarily attended a social event that didn’t involve bike parts or auction flyers since his wife died of breast cancer seven years prior, his only consistent interaction outside of client check-ins being the 10-minute weekly chat he has with the cashier at the taqueria down the street. His biggest flaw, one he’ll never admit out loud, is that he actively pushes people away before they can get close enough to disrupt the rigid, quiet routine he’s built for himself. He only showed up to the neighborhood block party that crisp October evening because he’d smelled brisket smoking from his driveway at 2 a.m. that morning, and he planned to grab a plate and bolt before anyone could corner him into small talk.
He’s halfway to his truck, plastic plate piled high with smoked meat and pickles, when a kid on a scooter swerves directly into his path. He steps sideways to avoid them, slamming right into the woman standing by the DIY margarita stand, his shoulder knocking the plastic cup out of her hand. Ice and lime-slush spatter both their jeans. He stammers out an apology, reaching for the napkin stack on the table at the exact same time she does. Their hands brush, her skin warm and soft against his calloused, grease-stained knuckles, and he freezes when he recognizes her. It’s Lila, the ex-wife of his highest-paying client, a tech bro who’d spent close to $22,000 at Marlon’s shop last year restoring a 1967 Triumph Bonneville. The guy had explicitly told Marlon, on more than one occasion, that Lila was “off limits” to anyone he did business with, a comment Marlon had thought was ridiculous even when they were still married.
She laughs, wiping a slush splatter off her cheek with the back of her hand, and says she knows exactly who he is, that she’s seen his name scribbled on dozens of work orders hidden in the bottom of her ex-husband’s golf bag. He’d lied to her for years, saying the bike work cost a quarter of what it actually did, and she’d only found the receipts when she was cleaning out the garage after their divorce was finalized six months prior. They end up leaning against the fence by the fire pit, Marlon setting his brisket plate on the ground beside him, the conversation flowing easier than any he’s had in years. She’s a botanical illustrator, she tells him, she just moved into the blue bungalow two doors down from his house three weeks prior. When someone throws another log on the fire, sparks fly upward, and she steps closer to him to avoid getting hit, her shoulder pressing firmly to his bicep through his flannel shirt. He can smell jasmine lotion and cedar smoke in her hair, and he has to fight the urge to lean in closer.
The entire time they’re talking, he’s torn. On one hand, his old loyalty to his client nags at him, makes him feel like he’s breaking some unwritten rule even though the guy’s been divorced for half a year, had moved to Dubai for a job two months prior, and Marlon hadn’t heard from him in three months. On the other, he hasn’t felt this light, this interested in another person, in almost a decade. She tilts her head up to meet his eye, holding his gaze for three full beats, no hint of awkwardness, and mentions that her ex left a beat-up 1978 Honda CB400 parked in her garage, that she’s always wanted to learn how to work on bikes herself, and asks if he’d be willing to teach her. He hesitates, his throat tight, and she brushes a stray pine needle off his sleeve, her fingers lingering on his forearm for just half a second longer than necessary, the rough wool of her sweater catching on the frayed edge of his cuff.
He says yes before he can talk himself out of it. She grins, pulling her phone out of her pocket to exchange numbers, and tells him she’ll bring over a six pack of his favorite IPA (she’d seen the empty cases stacked by his trash can the week prior) when she comes by tomorrow afternoon. He walks back to his house an hour later, his brisket plate forgotten by the fence, his cheeks pink from the cold and the quiet buzz of two margaritas he’d let her buy him. He’d planned to spend the rest of the night sorting carburetor parts in his shop, but instead he pulls the dust cover off the extra workbench he has tucked in the corner, wipes it down, and sets out a pair of brand new leather work gloves, still in their plastic packaging, on the edge of the table.
