Javi Mendez, 52, propped his elbow on the sticky linoleum bar top of The Rusty Spur and twisted the cap off his second Shiner Bock of the night. Fiberglass dust still dusted the cuffs of his frayed Carhartts, leftover from the 1971 Shasta he’d been patching all day. He’d avoided dating entirely since his wife left him eight years prior, convinced he was too rough around the edges, too set in his ways of early mornings and grease under his nails and quiet nights alone with his three hound dogs, to be anyone’s idea of a good time. The Friday night trivia crowd was louder than usual, a mess of neon fanny packs and homemade team t-shirts for the local library’s summer reading fundraiser, and he’d half a mind to finish his beer and head back to his trailer before anyone tried to talk to him.
The bartender, a guy he’d gone to high school with back in San Antonio, clapped him on the shoulder before he could move. “Team over there’s short a player. You know enough random old car and cowboy movie trivia to carry ‘em. Go sit.” Javi followed his nod to a booth in the back, where three women were huddled over a stack of trivia sheets, and the one facing the room waved him over. She was mid-40s, wore a faded floral cardigan over a white tank, had a smattering of freckles across her nose and a blue ballpoint pen tucked behind her ear. The empty seat next to her was pressed so close to the wall he had to squeeze past her to sit, his shoulder brushing her collarbone for half a second, and he caught a whiff of lavender perfume and peach seltzer over the bar’s usual smell of fried grease and stale cigarette smoke.
She held out a hand, her palm soft where his was crisscrossed with calluses from sanding aluminum and tightening wrench bolts. “Lila. New head librarian. We’re team ‘Dewey Decimate The Competition’.” Javi grunted a hello, grabbed a pencil from the stack in the middle of the table, and tried to ignore how close her knee was to his under the booth, warm even through the thick denim of his work jeans. The first round was 90s country music, and he got every single question right, and every time he wrote an answer down she leaned in to check his sheet, her breath fanning across his wrist, her wavy auburn hair brushing his forearm when she reached for a pickle spear off the shared platter. He told himself he was being stupid, that he was too old for this stupid flutter in his chest, that librarians were the kind of women who wanted guys who wore button downs and didn’t have fiberglass dust in their hair, and he felt a sharp, stupid twist of disgust at himself for even noticing how her eyes crinkled when she laughed at a bad joke one of her friends made.
By the third round they were in first place, and when they reached for the same pitcher of iced tea at the same time their knuckles brushed, and she didn’t pull away for a full three seconds, just held his eye, the corner of her mouth ticking up in a little half smile that made his ears go hot. They won by seven points, got a free round of tequila shots and a $50 gift card to the local feed store as the grand prize, and she insisted on shoving half the gift card in his pocket even when he said he didn’t need it. The bar kicked everyone out at 11, and the rain that had been threatening all night started falling, soft and warm, dripping off the awning over the front door in slow, heavy drops. Her friends piled into a beat-up minivan and left, and she stood next to him under the awning, twisting the strap of her canvas book bag around her wrist, and said she’d been meaning to look him up for weeks. She wanted to turn a small vintage camper into a mobile library for the rural parts of the county, where kids didn’t have easy access to the town branch, and everyone said he was the only guy within 50 miles who could restore something that old on a tight library budget.
Javi stared at her for a second, the rain making golden halos around the streetlights behind her, and when she reached up to brush a fleck of white fiberglass dust off his cheek he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, didn’t make a dumb joke to defuse the tension. Her fingers lingered on his jaw for half a beat, her thumb brushing the edge of his salt-and-pepper stubble, and he could feel the heat of her hand through his skin, the quiet hum of something he’d thought he’d killed off eight years prior unfurling low in his chest. He fished a crumpled work order out of his Carhartt pocket, scribbled his cell number on the back, and handed it to her, told her she could come by the barn any time the next week, even if she just wanted to look at the half-finished campers he had sitting out back, no pressure. She tucked the paper into the pocket of her cardigan, her fingers brushing his when she took it, and leaned in to press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek before she turned to unlock her 2012 Honda Civic.
He stood there under the awning for five minutes after she drove away, holding the crumpled empty beer bottle he’d forgotten to leave at the bar, rain soaking the hem of his plaid flannel shirt, and didn’t even notice he was smiling until a group of drunk college kids walked past and wolf whistled at him.
