Rafael “Rafe” Ortiz, 59, makes his living restoring vintage campers out of a drafty barn on the Oregon coast, and he’s spent the last 12 years perfecting the art of avoiding any social interaction that doesn’t involve a parts order or a client’s list of repair demands. His ex-wife left him for a retired PGA pro who owned a 1968 Winnebago Rafe had spent three months refurbishing, and he’d taken the betrayal as a sign that sticking to power tools and fiberglass resin was safer than letting anyone get close enough to disappoint him. He’d only agreed to drop off the restored 1972 Airstream he’d fixed for the county fair’s tourism booth because the client had offered him a 20% bonus for on-time delivery, not because he had any interest in wandering past the fried dough stands and screaming carnival rides.
The August heat hangs thick with the smell of sawdust, cotton candy, and diesel fumes from the farm tractor that helped him back the Airstream into its spot by the fair entrance, and when he rounds the front of the trailer to hand off the keys, he’s surprised to see Clara Marquez leaning against the booth’s wooden counter, silver streaks cutting through her dark braided hair, flecks of sky blue paint dotted across her forearms. He’d heard her ex-husband, his go-to parts supplier, complain about her for four straight years, calling her entitled, impulsive, a woman who couldn’t be trusted to stick around, so he’d already steeled himself for a short, tense exchange. He holds out the keys, and when she reaches for them their knuckles brush; he feels the thick callus on her index finger, the kind you get from holding a paint brush for hours at a time, and the unexpected contact sends a jolt up his arm he hasn’t felt in over a decade.
He’s halfway to his beat-up Ford F-150 when he hears her call after him, saying the Airstream’s built-in fridge isn’t powering on. He curses under his breath, turns back, and follows her inside the narrow trailer, the screen door slamming shut behind them. The space is barely wide enough for two people to stand side by side, and when she leans past him to grab a screwdriver from the counter, her shoulder presses firm against his bicep, the soft linen of her tank top warm through his worn work shirt. He smells jasmine lotion mixed with the faint sweetness of the cherry lollipop she’s sucking on, and he has to force himself to focus on the fridge’s wiring instead of the way her hair brushes his jaw when she bends down to hand him a multimeter.
She makes a joke about her ex always messing up small electrical jobs, and when he laughs, she admits she’s asked about him every time she picked up parts from her former husband, that she’d seen photos of his restoration work on social media and had specifically requested he get the Airstream contract. Rafe feels his chest tighten a little, the years of built-up suspicion warring with the quiet warmth he feels every time she speaks, every time their hands brush when she passes him a tool. He’d spent four years writing her off based on secondhand gossip, had told himself anyone his ex-supplier hated that much was bad news, but none of the stories line up with the woman next to him, who teases him about the grease stain on his jeans and knows the exact model of 1960s fridge he’s trying to fix.
He gets the fridge running 20 minutes later, and they sit side by side on the Airstream’s built-in vinyl bench by the open screen door, passing a cold beer she pulls from the newly cold shelf. The sun is starting to dip low over the coast, painting the sky pink and orange, and when he turns to say he should head out, she’s already looking at him, her dark eyes steady, no look away, no shy smile, just unapologetic interest. Her knee presses against his where they sit, and she says the only reason her ex talked so much trash about her was because she’d left him after she found out he’d been stealing parts from Rafe’s orders to resell on the side, that he’d been jealous of Rafe’s skill for years.
Rafe sits silent for a minute, processing the news, the last of his resistance crumbling. He doesn’t leave like he planned. He stays, walking the fairgrounds with her after the booth closes for the night, splitting an order of fried Oreos dusted with powdered sugar, winning her a stuffed sea turtle at the ring toss booth after three tries. He walks her to her beat-up Subaru at the end of the night, the fair’s string lights glowing soft behind them, and when he tucks a stray strand of hair that escaped her braid behind her ear, she leans into his palm instead of pulling away, her skin warm against the calluses on his fingertips.
