Javi Mendez, 51, makes his living restoring vintage travel trailers out of a pole barn on 12 acres of scrub Oregon oak, an hour outside Portland. He’s got a scar slicing through his left eyebrow from a 2019 accident with a rusted Airstream bumper, and a rule he’s stuck to for eight years, ever since his wife packed a duffel and drove back to Texas without a note: no distractions that don’t involve power tools or a work order. He only agreed to bring his brisket chili to the local fire department’s annual cookoff because his next door neighbor, a retired schoolteacher named Marnie, showed up on his porch with a homemade peach pie and wouldn’t leave until he said yes.
The September air bites sharp enough to turn his nose pink, and he’s leaning against the bed of his dented 2003 Ford F250, sipping a cheap lager, when he catches a whiff of jasmine shampoo cutting through the smell of smoked meat and wood smoke. He turns, and Elara Voss is standing so close her suede jacket brushes his bare forearm. He’d only ever seen her in tailored blouses and slacks, the no-nonsense part-time bookkeeper he’d hired three months prior to sort out his messy invoicing, so the faded 1998 Pearl Jam tour tee under her jacket makes him blink. She holds his eye contact for two beats longer than professional, one corner of her mouth tugging up. “No oil-stained overalls today? I almost didn’t recognize you.”
He huffs a laugh, wiping his free hand on the thigh of his flannel-lined jeans. “Figured I shouldn’t get chili grease on the ones with the Airstream patch. You here alone?” He gestures to the paper plate in her hand, piled high with cornbread. She nods, shifting her weight so their shoulders are pressed together, and he doesn’t step back. The callus on her middle finger, from holding a pen eight hours a day, brushes his wrist when she reaches past him to grab a sample cup of his chili off the tailgate, and the jolt of it travels up his arm straight to his chest. He’s half convinced she did it on purpose, until she mumbles an apology, her cheeks pink under the string lights strung between the fire station’s support beams.
They talk for 45 minutes, leaning against the truck, while other townsfolk wander up to grab chili samples and clap Javi on the back. She tells him she drove up from Sacramento three months prior, fresh off a 20-year marriage to a dentist who cared more about his golf handicap than her collection of 90s vinyl. He tells her about the 1972 Boler he’s restoring for a client in Seattle, and the rare first pressing of Pearl Jam’s Ten he found tucked under the seat of a rotting 1968 Scamp he’d bought at an auction earlier that year. Her eyes light up so bright he almost forgets to breathe.
When all the picnic tables fill up, she leads him over to a stack of hay bales off to the side, and they sit so close their knees knock together through their jeans. He can hear the crinkle of her suede jacket when she shifts to reach for another bite of cornbread, the low rumble of her laugh over the Tom Petty playing from the fire station’s speakers, the warmth of her leg seeping through the denim to his skin. He keeps waiting for that familiar urge to bolt, to make an excuse about having to get back to a trailer that needs work, but it never comes.
The fire chief announces the raffle winners an hour later, and Javi’s name is called for the grand prize: a three-night stay at a tiny off-grid cabin in the Mount Hood National Forest, complete with a wood stove and a record player. He opens his mouth to say he doesn’t have time to go, that he’s got three trailers due to clients before the end of October, when Elara leans in, her breath warm against the shell of his ear, her hair brushing his cheek. “I’ll split the drive if you bring that Ten pressing. I haven’t heard it on vinyl since I was 22.”
The rule he’s clung to for eight years frays then snaps entirely. He nods, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. “Only if you bring your own beer. I’m not sharing my stash.” She laughs, squeezing his knee, and leaves her hand there for three full beats, her thumb brushing the frayed edge of his jeans.
By the time the cookoff wraps up, the sky is dark enough to see the first stars peeking through the tree line. They walk to their trucks parked down the dirt road, and she stops next to her beat-up Subaru Outback, pulling a crumpled flyer out of her jacket pocket for a 90s cover band show at the local bar the following weekend. She hands it to him, her fingers brushing his palm when he takes it. “Warmup for the cabin trip, if you’re not busy.”
He tucks the flyer into the front pocket of his flannel, watching her climb into her car and wave before she pulls onto the main road, her taillights fading into the dark. He pulls the flyer back out, running his thumb over the smudged ink of the band’s name, already mentally rearranging his work schedule for the next two weeks.
