Javier Mendez, 52, has restored 78 vintage motorcycles in the six years since his wife Clara died, and he’d rather spend a weekend covered in gear oil than make small talk at the town’s annual summer street fair. But he’d entered his fully restored 1972 Honda CB750 in the show, and when the judge handed him first place, he’d stuck around long enough to grab a cold hazy IPA from the beer tent, leaning against the chipped red brick of the general store to avoid the crowds of families chasing toddlers and teens darting between food trucks. The air smells like fried Oreos, hickory smoke from the barbecue stand, and cut grass, the country cover band off on the main stage cranking out a twangy version of a Tom Petty track loud enough that he can feel the bass thud in his boots.
He’s halfway through his beer when Maeve Carter steps into his line of sight, two paper plates piled high with smoked brisket and coleslaw in one hand, a cold can of root beer in the other. She moved back to town three months prior, opened a breakfast taco truck on the edge of his shop’s parking lot, and he’s spoken to her exactly twice: once to complain that her regular customers were taking up his shop’s client parking, once to help her jump her truck’s dead battery. He’d avoided her beyond that, clinging to the half-remembered promise he’d made Clara the week before she died, that he’d never mess up their tight-knit friend group by dating anyone they both knew. He’d blocked out the rest of that conversation, the part where Clara laughed and said Maeve had been sweet on him since they were all in their 20s, that if he ever found himself ready to stop grieving, she’d want him to give her a shot.
Maeve stops a foot away, sun glinting off the silver hoop earrings she’s wearing, a smudge of barbecue sauce on the curve of her left cheek, her cutoff jean shorts frayed at the hem, her faded Fleetwood Mac tee thin enough that he can see the outline of the sunflower tattoo on her left shoulder. She’s 48, divorced twice, no kids, and every single one of their mutual friends has dropped a not-so-subtle hint that they’d be perfect together in the last three months. “Knew you’d forget to eat after hovering over your bike all afternoon,” she says, stepping close enough that he can smell coconut sunscreen and the cherry Laffy Taffy she’s chewing, her elbow brushing his bare forearm when she holds out one of the plates. Their fingers brush for half a second when he takes it, calloused from his work on bikes against calloused from her kneading tortilla dough, and he feels his throat go dry, his ears warm even in the shade.
He doesn’t remember agreeing to sit on the curb with her to eat, but next thing he knows they’re shoulder to shoulder, their knees bumping every time someone walks past, her laughing so hard at his story about a customer who tried to bring in a riding lawnmower to “soup up for the county fair” that a snort comes out of her nose. He keeps noticing little things he never paid attention to before: the tiny scar on her wrist from the time they all went camping in 2018 and she tripped over a log carrying a case of beer, the way she tucks a loose strand of sun-streaked brown hair behind her ear when she’s nervous, the way her knee presses just a little harder against his when she’s making a point. He hasn’t laughed this hard since Clara died, and for a second he feels a sharp twist of guilt in his gut, like he’s doing something wrong, something forbidden.
The band switches to a slow, soft cover of Fleetwood Mac’s *Dreams*, and Maeve wipes her hands on her shorts, stands up, holds out her hand to him. The world feels like it slows down for a beat, the noise of the fair fading to a low hum, the only thing he can focus on is her outstretched hand, the smile on her face, the memory of Clara’s voice popping into his head unbidden, clear as day: Stop being an idiot, Mendez, she’s good for you. He hesitates for two full seconds, then slips his hand into hers, lets her pull him to his feet.
They dance slow, not too close at first, a foot of space between them, but then a group of teens dart past, yelling and carrying armfuls of cotton candy, and he pulls her against his chest to keep her from getting knocked over. He can feel the warmth of her body through her thin tee, her hand resting light on his shoulder, her thumb brushing the small tattoo of Clara’s initials he has on his collarbone, visible through the unbuttoned top of his work shirt. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away, just smiles soft, like she knows exactly what that tattoo means, exactly how heavy the weight he’s been carrying is. He leans down, she tilts her chin up, and their lips meet, slow and soft, no hurry, tasting like brisket and cherry candy and the IPA he’s been drinking. It doesn’t feel like a betrayal. It feels like breathing again, after holding his breath for six years.
They pull away after a minute, and she swipes her thumb across his chin to wipe off a smudge of barbecue sauce he didn’t know was there, then licks the sauce off her thumb, winking up at him. He laughs, loud and genuine, the knot of guilt in his gut unraveling completely. They stay and dance for two more songs, his hand resting light on her waist, her head tilted against his chest, before she says she has to go check on her taco truck, which is parked next to his shop. He walks with her down the empty side street, their hands laced together, the sun dipping low over the pine trees, painting the sky pink and orange. When they get to his shop’s front door, he pulls his key ring out of his pocket, unlocks the deadbolt, then turns to her, nodding at the half-restored 1968 Triumph Bonneville sitting visible through the front window.
He holds the door open for her, the smell of gear oil and lemon polish drifting out into the warm evening air.
