Javi Ruiz is 51, has spent the last eight years sanding rust out of 1970s Airstreams and avoiding any event his ex-wife Lila has a hand in. He’d built his vintage camper restoration business from scratch out of a cinder block shop outside Asheville, works alone most days, talks more to the stray tabby that hangs around his garage than he does to most people. His worst flaw, the one his best friend ribs him for every Sunday over biscuits, is that he holds grudges like they’re valuable collector’s items. He still won’t eat blackberry pie, for God’s sake, just because that was Lila’s go-to dessert for every argument they ever had.
He’s at the downtown farmers market on a crisp October afternoon, hoodie pulled up against the wind, to pick up a jar of sourwood honey for a client who asked him to install a custom honey shelf in their Airstream kitchen. He’s already walked past the community potluck booth twice, head down, because he knows Lila’s running it this month. He’s halfway to the honey stand when a golden retriever on a retractable leash shoots out between his legs, and he stumbles, shoulder slamming into the side of the potluck booth hard enough to rattle a stack of paper plates.
A hand wraps around his bicep to steady him, warm and calloused, and when he looks up, he’s staring at a woman with a silver lip ring, streaks of auburn in her dark braid, holding a tray of cornbread slices. He recognizes her immediately, even though he only met her once, 15 years ago at his wedding. That’s Clara, Lila’s younger cousin from Austin, the one who’d gotten drunk on tequila at the reception and told him he was too good for Lila’s “everything has to be perfect” nonsense.
She doesn’t let go of his arm right away, her thumb brushing the edge of the faded Airstream logo on his hoodie, and he can smell honey and smoked chili powder on her fingers, the faint scent of cedar shampoo in her hair. She smirks, like she can tell exactly what he’s doing avoiding the booth, and leans in just close enough that he can feel her breath on his ear over the sound of the bluegrass band playing by the park entrance. “Still running from my cousin, huh?”
He tenses up, half ready to mumble an excuse and bolt, but she tugs him closer to the booth, out of the way of a group of kids chasing each other with mini pumpkins. Their elbows bump as they lean against the wooden edge of the booth, her flannel sleeve rough against his bare wrist, and she holds up a slice of cornbread dotted with pickled jalapenos. “Relax. She’s not here. Had to run to the vet for her dumb sphynx cat. I’m filling in.”
The conflict hums in his chest, half instinctual disgust at the idea of even being near anything tied to Lila, half sharp, unnameable desire that’s been sitting low in his gut since she grabbed his arm. He’d thought about her a handful of times over the years, always pushed the thought away fast, because she was family, off-limits, tied to the part of his life he’d worked so hard to burn to the ground. But she’s laughing now, teasing him about the fact that she’d seen his Instagram page of finished campers, that she’d been following it for two years and never said anything because she knew he’d block her if he realized who she was.
She tells him she’s in town for a month, organizing a small campout for her friends up in Pisgah National Forest the coming weekend, no Lila, no drama, just people who like old campers and cheap beer and hiking to hidden waterfalls. She’s leaning in when she talks, eye contact steady, no flicker of awkwardness, and he catches himself staring at the way her lip ring catches the sun when she grins. He’s about to make an excuse, say he has a camper due that weekend, when she slips the piece of cornbread into his hand, her thumb brushing the thick callus on his palm from holding a sander for 8 hours a day, and says, “Stop being an idiot. You’ve spent eight years punishing yourself for a marriage that didn’t work. It’s okay to have fun.”
The words hit him harder than he expects. He’d never thought of it that way, that the grudge he’d been holding so tight wasn’t hurting Lila at all, it was just keeping him away from stuff he might actually like. He takes a bite of the cornbread, spicy and sweet, and nods. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll come.”
He pulls up to the campground just after dusk on Saturday, his fully restored 1972 Airstream glinting in the golden light from the campfires strung along the dirt road. He spots her immediately, sitting on a folding chair by a fire pit, holding a can of IPA, and she waves so hard her beer sloshes over the edge onto her jeans. He grabs the six pack of local stout he stashed in the passenger seat, boots crunching over fallen red oak leaves, and doesn’t look back once.
