Rafe Mendez, 53, has restored vintage travel trailers out of his Asheville cinder block garage for 18 years. His knuckles are perpetually scabbed from sanding aluminum shells, his jeans always have a faint epoxy streak on the thigh, and he’s held a petty, unshakable grudge against Greg Hale for 31 years, ever since Greg dumped his entire cooler of craft beer into Fontana Lake during a senior year camping trip. He’d avoided every event Greg might show up to for three decades, and only agreed to come to the town’s annual summer street dance because his 16-year-old niece was singing lead for her high school country cover band, and she’d threatened to hide all his favorite socket sets if he bailed.
He’s leaned against the sun-warmed brick wall of the local hardware store, sipping a hazy IPA, when Elara Hale trips over the raised concrete curb three feet in front of him. She’s carrying a paper plate piled high with fried green tomatoes, wearing a linen sundress the color of wild blueberries, silver hoops glinting in golden hour light, and Rafe reaches out before he thinks, steadying her by the elbow so she doesn’t face-plant into the asphalt. Her skin is warm under his calloused hand, and when she looks up at him, grinning a little sheepish, he recognizes her immediately: Greg’s ex-wife, who he hasn’t seen since she moved to Georgia 14 years prior.
She thanks him, wiping a fleck of fried breading off her wrist, and says she remembers him. “Greg never told me it was you who fixed our pop-up camper back in 2011,” she says, leaning in a little to talk over the band tuning up. “Called you some hack down the road, but that thing held up through six cross-country trips. Never leaked once.” Rafe snorts, shoves his free hand in his jeans pocket. Greg always was a pissant who couldn’t admit when someone did better work than him. He should walk away right now, he knows. All his VFW buddies are watching from the picnic tables by the taco truck, and Greg is over by the corn hole set, red faced and half drunk, already glaring in their direction.
But Elara is still standing close enough that he can smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, sweet tang of bourbon on her breath, and she’s laughing at the face he made when he called Greg a pissant, and he doesn’t move. She mentions she moved back to town two weeks prior, finalized her divorce six months before, and just bought a beat-up 1972 Airstream Sovereign she wants to turn into a mobile pottery studio. She asks if he’s taking on new jobs. He almost says no out of habit, almost makes up a lie about being booked six months out, but she tilts her head, looks up at him through dark lashes, and the words die in his throat.
The band launches into a slow George Strait deep cut, the kind of song everyone over 40 in town knows all the words to, and couples drift onto the empty stretch of Main Street roped off for dancing. Elara nods toward the crowd, raises an eyebrow. “You gonna make me ask twice?” Rafe hesitates for half a second, sets his half-empty IPA on the brick ledge behind him, takes her hand. Her palm is soft, a little calloused at the fingertips from throwing pottery, she tells him when he asks. He pulls her close, one hand light on her waist, the other tangled with hers, and he can feel the warmth of her skin through the thin linen of her dress, her shoulder pressed firm to his bicep. Their heads are inches apart, and for a second he forgets anyone else exists, forgets the grudge, forgets Greg is standing 20 yards away fuming so hard he’s probably about to snap his corn hole paddle in half.
He glances over Elara’s shoulder right as Greg starts walking toward them, and Rafe smirks, pulls her a little closer, leans down and kisses her. She makes a soft, surprised noise, then kisses him back, her free hand tangling in the graying curls at the nape of his neck, and he can taste bourbon and fried green tomato on her lips, the faint salt of summer sweat. The crowd noise fades to a low hum, the song still playing soft in the background, and when they pull apart a few seconds later, Greg is frozen halfway across the street, jaw hanging open. Elara glances over her shoulder, snorts, then turns back to Rafe, grinning so wide her cheeks dimple.
The song ends a minute later, and she tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, gives his hand a squeeze. “So that Airstream job. You gonna charge me extra for that kiss?” Rafe laughs, shakes his head, laces his fingers through hers. “Nah. I’ll throw the kiss in for free. But you gotta buy me dinner first. No fried green tomatoes, though. I’m sick of Greg’s favorite side.” She snorts, slaps his arm playfully, and pulls him toward the food truck at the end of the block, the one that sells smoked brisket sliders and pickled okra. He doesn’t look back at Greg, doesn’t spare a single thought for the stupid 31-year grudge he’s carried for half his life, just focuses on the way her hand fits perfectly in his, the sound of her laugh cutting through the hum of the crowd.
