Rafe Marlow, 59, vintage camper restoration specialist, hunches over his dented stainless steel crockpot at the annual McDowell County Fire Department chili cookoff, swiping sweat off his forehead with the cuff of his grease-stained navy flannel. He’d almost bailed an hour before, his old pickup idling in the driveway, because he knew exactly what waited for him here: the church guild ladies shoving phone numbers of their widowed sisters in his pocket, the fire chief teasing him about still living alone three roads over, the constant questions about why he never brings a date anywhere. He’s spent eight years perfecting the art of being left alone, ever since his ex-wife packed her bags and moved to Florida, complaining he cared more about rusted Airstream frames than he did about her. It stung bad enough that he’d sworn off dating entirely, convinced he was too set in his ways to make anyone happy anymore.
The October air is unseasonably warm, thick with the smell of smoked brisket, burnt hot dogs, and bonfire smoke curling off the field at the edge of the fairgrounds. He’s just about to pack up his leftovers and sneak out early when someone leans against the picnic table next to his booth, close enough that their shoulder almost brushes his. He looks up, and it’s the woman who moved into the old log cabin three miles down his road three months prior. He’s only ever waved at her from his truck as he passed, never stopped to talk, but he’s noticed her: the beat-up 1987 Ford F-150 she works on in her driveway on weekends, the way she leaves her porch light on until 11 every night, the AC/DC hoodie she wears even on the hottest days. Today it’s cut off at the elbows, showing a smattering of freckles across her forearms and a tiny tattoo of a sparrow on her wrist, a smudge of engine grease high on her left cheek.
“Tried every pot on the row,” she says, nodding at his crockpot, her voice low and rough, like she’s been yelling over hospital monitors all week. He remembers hearing from the feed store clerk she’s a travel nurse, just in town for a year covering the ER at the small regional hospital 20 minutes away. “Yours smells like the only one that doesn’t taste like canned tomato sauce and regret. Mind if I grab a sample?”
Rafe fumbles for a stack of plastic spoons, his knuckles knocking against the edge of the crockpot hard enough to make him wince. When he hands one to her, their fingers brush. It’s just a split second, but he feels a jolt like static from a camper battery run up his arm, and he yanks his hand back like he touched a hot exhaust pipe, mumbles an apology. She laughs, a rough, warm sound that cuts through the chatter of the crowd around them, and dips the spoon into the chili.
“Relax,” she says, blowing on the spoon before taking a bite. She closes her eyes for half a second, hums, and Rafe’s throat goes dry. “I don’t bite. Unless you ask real nice.”
She leans further against the table, crossing her legs, and the toe of her scuffed work boot knocks lightly against his calf, deliberate, not accidental. He can smell lavender shampoo and the faint, sweet tang of menthol cigarette smoke on her, and he catches a sliver of tanned skin between the hem of her hoodie and the waist of her high-waisted jeans when she shifts her weight. He stares longer than he should, and when he looks back up at her face, she’s smirking, like she knows exactly where his eyes just were. She doesn’t call him out on it, just takes another bite of chili.
The conflict nags at him the whole time they talk, sharp and constant: he told himself he was done with this, done with putting himself out there, done with being the talk of the small town diner when things go wrong. Everyone here already has enough to say about the grumpy camper guy who lives alone and never talks to anyone. If he so much as has a beer with his new neighbor, the entire county will be planning their wedding by the end of the week. It feels stupid, taboo almost, to even entertain the idea of wanting something with someone, after so long of being perfectly fine on his own. He can almost hear his ex’s voice in his head, telling him he’s too stubborn, too wrapped up in his work, to ever be good for anyone.
She tells him she’s been trying to fix the leaky roof on her 1972 Airstream for three weeks, can’t figure out where the water’s seeping in, has a stack of sealant tubes in her garage that did absolutely nothing. “The feed store guy said you’re the best around for that kind of thing,” she says, picking at a splinter in the picnic table, her nail polish chipped neon pink. “I’d pay you, obviously. Or I make a mean peach pie, and I’ve got a case of that hazy IPA you buy from the brewery down in Asheville. Saw it in the back of your truck last week when you passed by.”
Rafe hesitates for a full ten seconds, his brain screaming at him to say no, to make up an excuse about being backed up on work, to go home to his quiet empty house and his half-finished Airstream project and forget he even talked to her. But then he looks up, and she’s holding eye contact with him, no pity, no expectation, just a quiet little smile, and his resolve crumbles.
“Pie and beer works better than cash,” he says, and he’s surprised at how steady his voice sounds. “I can swing by tomorrow around two. Should take me a couple hours max to track down the leak.”
She lights up, grinning so wide he can see the tiny gap between her two front teeth, and she leans in a little closer, her shoulder pressing solidly against his this time, no distance between them. “Good,” she says, and her voice is lower now, soft enough only he can hear it over the noise of the crowd. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to talk to you instead of just waving from my porch when you drive by.”
She leaves a minute later, saying she’s got to pick up a shift at the hospital in an hour, and she slips him a scrap of paper with her cell number scribbled on it, folded up so no one else can see. The fire chief claps him on the back hard enough to make him choke on his sip of soda a few minutes later, teasing him that he finally stopped moping long enough to talk to someone who isn’t a rusted camper frame. Rafe shakes him off, but he can’t stop the small, stupid smile from tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He packs up his crockpot an hour early, skipping the awards ceremony even though he knows his chili won first place for the third year running. He stops by his shop on the way home, grabs the high-grade sealant he uses for vintage Airstream roofs, checks twice to make sure it’s not expired, then grabs a cold six pack of his favorite IPA from the mini fridge behind his workbench, just in case her case is almost gone. He tucks the six pack into the passenger seat of his truck when he heads home at dusk, already planning to leave 10 minutes early the next day, just to see if she’s out on her porch when he pulls up.
