Rafe Oliveira, 52, has restored over 300 vintage motorcycles out of his converted garage shop on Oregon’s northern coast, and he’s still terrible at letting go of a grudge. Fifteen years prior, his ex-wife’s cousin Todd stiffed him on a $1200 repair bill for a beat-up Harley he’d fixed up as a favor, then spread a lie around their extended family that Rafe had cut corners on the work. Rafe cut off contact with every last one of Todd’s people after that, kept to his shop, his small rented cottage a half mile from the beach, his weekly routine of picking up supplies in town then stopping at the farmers market for raw honey and sharp white cheddar.
Mid-September air bites at his cheeks when he hefts a half gallon of honey into his canvas tote, the faint, sweet smell of it mixing with the pine and salt that’s permanently woven into the fabric of his worn Carhartt jacket. Grease crusted under his fingernails catches the sun, the same dark residue he can never fully scrub out no matter how much Lava soap he uses. He’s about to turn for the cheese stand when he spots her, and his jaw tightens.
Lila Marlow, Todd’s ex-wife, newly divorced three months, moved to town two weeks prior to take over her late aunt’s downtown bookshop. Rafe has avoided every possible run-in with her so far, even driving 20 minutes out of his way to pick up parts rather than stop at the hardware store two blocks from her shop. He tries to duck behind a stack of dill pickle jars, but she sees him, waves, and starts walking over.
She smells like lavender and roasted chestnuts from the stand behind her when she stops in front of him, her flannel tied around her waist, jeans with a small frayed hole at the knee, scuffed work boots caked with mud from hauling boxes of books. Her hazel eyes have flecks of gold in them that he doesn’t remember from the handful of family gatherings they’d both attended years back. She says she’s been meaning to stop by his shop, that her dad left her a 1978 Honda CB750 when he passed last spring, and she wants it fully restored, remembers him gushing about that exact model at his wedding 22 years prior.
Rafe’s first instinct is to say no, to tell her he’s booked out six months, to walk away before he has to think about the fact that she was married to the guy who made his life hell for two years after that bill went unpaid. But she leans in to point at a jar of peach jam on the table next to them, her shoulder brushing his through the thick Carhartt, and he can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric. She laughs when he jokes that Todd always turned his nose up at homemade jam, called it “rich people crap,” and her hand brushes his forearm for half a second, light as a sea breeze, before she pulls it back.
The conflict hums sharp in his chest, equal parts irritation and a low, warm thrum of desire he hasn’t felt in years. He’s disgusted with himself for even entertaining talking to her, for not turning and walking away right then, but the way she’s looking at him like he’s the only person in the crowded market makes his throat go dry. She says she has something else to talk to him about, asks if he wants to get a beer at the dive bar down the street once the market closes.
He says yes before he can talk himself out of it.
The bar smells like fried peanuts and old draft beer when they slide into a booth in the back, dim string lights strung above the bar casting soft gold over her face. She pulls a folded check out of her jacket pocket, slides it across the table to him. It’s for $1800, made out to his shop. She says she found the old invoice for Todd’s Harley when she was going through their files during the divorce, knew he’d never paid Rafe, added interest for the 15 years it was overdue. She apologizes, says Todd was a serial liar and a cheat, that she had no idea he’d stiffed him until she found the paperwork, that she always thought Rafe was the only decent person in that entire messed up extended family.
Rafe stares at the check for a long minute, then picks it up, folds it into his jeans pocket. He’d written that money off so long ago he’d forgotten it even existed, but more than the cash, he’s shocked that she’s bothering to make it right, that she’s not defending the guy she was married to for 17 years. Her knee brushes his under the table every time she shifts in the booth, and she leans in close when he talks about the CB750, asks questions about the restoration process, doesn’t flinch when he holds up his hand to show her the permanent grease stains under his nails, says she thinks it’s cool that he builds things that last, that have history.
By the time they finish their second beer, the sun’s gone down, the air outside has a sharp, frosty edge to it that makes his nose run when they step out onto the sidewalk. He walks her to her beat-up Subaru parked two blocks over, the sound of waves crashing a few blocks away mixing with the faint hum of traffic from the main road. She stops next to her driver’s side door, turns to face him, and asks if he’s free Saturday to come out to her place to look at the bike, says she’s making meatloaf, has a bottle of 12-year bourbon she’s been saving for a good occasion.
He says yes, no hesitation, no overthinking it. She smiles, leans up, presses a quick, warm kiss to his stubbled cheek, her hand resting light on his chest for a split second before she pulls away. She gets in her car, waves when she pulls out of the parking spot, and drives off.
Rafe stands there for a minute, his hand going to the spot on his cheek where her lips touched, the check crinkling in his pocket, the faint smell of lavender still clinging to the cuff of his jacket. For the first time in 15 years, he doesn’t feel that familiar hot twist of resentment when he thinks of Todd. He just feels the warm buzz of the beer in his veins, the salt air stinging his cheeks, and the quiet, bright thrill of looking forward to Saturday.
