Rafe Marquez, 52, makes his living sanding dents out of vintage camper shells and rewiring 1970s fridge units that outlasted three owners and a hurricane. He’s stubborn to a fault, hasn’t let anyone sleep over at his small bungalow since his divorce eight years prior, and only leaves his shop on weekends for two things: deep sea fishing trips with his old high school buddy, and the annual coastal food truck rally every May, where he can eat his weight in carnitas tacos and avoid small talk with the neighbors who keep trying to set him up with their divorced sisters.
This year’s rally smells like charred carne asada and coconut lime shaved ice, the ocean breeze carrying the faint tinny twang of a cover band playing 90s country two blocks over, sharp with salt that sticks to the back of his throat. Rafe is nursing a cold IPA, work boots caked in a mix of sawdust and damp grass, a smudge of aluminum polish still on his left jaw from buffing out an Airstream panel that morning, when he reaches for a stack of paper napkins at the taco truck counter at the exact same time as the woman next to him. Their knuckles brush, hers soft, dotted with faint freckles, his calloused from 12 years of buffing aluminum and tightening camper hitch bolts.
He mutters an apology, glances up, and freezes. He’d know that dimple in her left cheek anywhere. It’s Lila, his ex-wife’s daughter from her first marriage, the kid he’d taken to the skate park every Saturday for three years back when he was married to her mom, the one who’d snuck his old Nirvana band tees and drawn sun tattoos on her wrist with permanent marker even though her mom yelled at her for it for a full hour. He does the math fast, she’s 32 now, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, a real sun tattoo wrapping around her left wrist exactly where she used to scribble the fake ones with neon Sharpie.
She recognizes him at the same time, her mouth dropping open for half a second before she grins, that snorty laugh he remembers bubbling out when he teases her about finally committing to the tattoo. The crowd shifts behind them, a group of teens carrying overstuffed chili cheese corn dogs pushing her right up against his side, her shoulder pressing firm into his bicep, and she doesn’t step back. They lean against the splintered wooden fence lining the park, talking over the noise of the crowd, her leaning in close to hear him when a loud cheer goes up from the cornhole tournament nearby, her breath warm against his ear, carrying the faint scent of coconut shampoo.
The first wave of guilt hits him hard when he catches himself staring at her mouth, the way she bites her lower lip when he tells her about the 1968 Airstream he just finished restoring for a retired couple from Portland who plan to drive it all the way to Alaska. He tells himself he should leave, say it was good to see her, go home to his quiet house and his half-finished 1972 VW Bus restoration project, pretend this run-in never happened. But she mentions she’s a travel nurse, just in town for a three month contract working the ER at the local hospital, that she looked up his shop on Google Maps twice in the last week but was too nervous to stop by, scared he wouldn’t remember her, or would think she was weird for reaching out.
When she asks if he can show her the Airstream, parked a block away on a quiet side street where he left it that morning for the client to pick up the next day, he hesitates for three full beats before saying yes. The walk over is quiet, the noise of the rally fading behind them, the sound of waves crashing against the shore loud enough that he doesn’t have to fill the silence with awkward small talk. He unlocks the Airstream door, holds it open for her, and she steps inside, gasping a little at the warm oak cabinetry, the hand-sewn cushion covers, the panoramic front window looking out over the rocky shoreline.
She turns to face him, the golden hour sun pouring through the window gilding the edges of her hair, and she reaches up, her thumb brushing the smudge of aluminum polish he’d missed on his left jaw. She tells him she had a crush on him back then, that he was the only adult who ever let her rant about her mom’s stupid curfews and didn’t tell her to “just be quiet and respect your mom” when she was upset. The guilt warring with the heat low in his gut fades fast when she leans in a little closer, her hand still resting on his jaw, and he doesn’t pull away.
