Rafe Mendez, 53, leaned against the dented passenger door of his 1972 Ford F250, sipping a hazy IPA that fizzed cold through the aluminum can against his palm. The weekly classic car meet at the south Austin beer garden was packed, the air thick with the smell of smoked brisket from the food truck by the gate and exhaust from a row of restored Camaros idling down the row. He’d come alone, same as he did every Saturday for the past three years, specifically to avoid the forced small talk of his divorced friend group’s cookouts, where half the guys were chasing 20-something girls on dating apps and the other half were begging him to restore their cheap pop-up campers for free. A guy selling rusted Airstream shells had already cornered him twice that night, and Rafe was half a second from packing up and heading home to his quiet barn apartment when he spotted her walking toward him.
She had flour smudged on the knee of her dark jeans, a red bandana holding back messy chestnut hair, and a crumpled paper bag tucked under one arm. Rafe’s first thought was that she was another influencer, the third that month to track him down to ask for free resto work in exchange for a shoutout on her Instagram. He tensed, already preparing to shut her down, when she stopped a foot away, close enough that he could smell the vanilla lip balm she wore and a faint whiff of cinnamon, the kind he remembered his abuela using for conchas when he was a kid. “Rafe?” she said, holding out a calloused hand, and he noticed the faint white scar across her knuckle, the same kind you get from accidentally slamming a heavy oven door. “I’m Clara. I own the sourdough shop on 6th Street. Mrs. Henderson said you were the guy to talk to about my 1968 Scotty Sportsman.”
Mrs. Henderson was the retired 72-year-old teacher he’d restored a 1959 Silver Streak for earlier that year, so that softened him a little, but he still held back, crossing his arms over his chest so he didn’t accidentally reach for her hand. He’d had enough of people using his skills for clout, enough of feeling like a walking checkbook for people who didn’t care how much time he put into a frame or how much he hated cutting into original birch paneling. His ex-wife had left him eight years prior for a guy she met on the cross-country RV trip Rafe had spent two years planning and saving for, and he’d built up so many walls since then that even a friendly conversation felt like a risk. He was 15 years older than Clara, for Christ’s sake, anyone who saw them talking would write him off as another sad middle-aged guy chasing a younger woman, and he hated the thought of being that cliche so much he could taste it.
She didn’t push, just shifted her weight and set the paper bag on the hood of his truck, pushing it toward him. “I brought you a loaf of the garlic rosemary sourdough. I pay for what I need, I don’t do free shoutout barter, before you ask.” He blinked, picking up the bag, and when his fingers brushed hers on the edge of the crumpled paper, he felt a jolt go up his arm, sharp and warm. Her calluses were rougher than his in some spots, from kneading 40 pounds of dough a day, she explained, and she’d already gotten three quotes from other resto guys in town who’d quoted her double the going rate because they thought she didn’t know the difference between butyl tape and cheap caulking. She talked about the Scotty like it was a person, ranted about the leaky back window that had ruined her original vintage dinette cushions, and he found himself leaning in, listening, the beer forgotten at his feet. She didn’t bat her eyes or laugh too loud at his bad jokes, she just nodded when he explained why the caulk she’d been using kept failing, teased him about the grumpy sticker on his toolbox that said “I don’t fix trailers for influencer reels” that she’d spotted on the passenger seat, and when she sat down on the picnic bench next to him, their knees brushed under the table and she didn’t move away.
He agreed to come look at the Scotty first thing Sunday morning, and when she left, waving over her shoulder, he stood there holding the warm loaf of bread like it was a prize he hadn’t earned. He spent the rest of the night arguing with himself, half disgusted that he was even considering spending time with a woman 15 years his junior, half giddy that he’d had a conversation with someone who didn’t see him as either the trailer guy or the guy whose wife left him for a guy with a bigger RV. He showed up at her shop at 8 a.m. the next day, his tool belt slung over his shoulder, and she was waiting for him on the back porch, holding two mugs of black coffee, the Scotty parked right behind the shop. She was wearing work boots and a faded Willie Nelson flannel that was too big for her, and she held up a tube of butyl tape and a box of new rubber seals, grinning. “Already bought all the supplies,” she said, handing him a coffee. “No free labor allowed.”
He took the mug, and when their fingers brushed this time, he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, didn’t overthink what everyone would say if they saw them. She climbed up the ladder to the roof of the Scotty first, holding out a hand to help him up, and when he took it, her palm was warm and rough against his. She leaned over to point out the spot where the caulk was cracked, her shoulder pressed to his, and he could smell the cinnamon and vanilla again, mixing with the smell of pine from the tree in her backyard. When she turned to face him, her face only a few inches from his, she brushed a fleck of sawdust off his cheek, her thumb grazing his skin soft and slow. He didn’t step back, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t overthink what comes next.
