Rafe Mendez, 53, has restored 47 vintage campers in the seven years since his wife walked out, each one sanded, rewired, and sealed to a standard so strict clients joke he cares more about 1970s Airstream gaskets than people. It’s not entirely a joke. He avoids neighborhood events like they carry a contagious strain of small talk, only showing up to this late August cookout because his 82-year-old next door neighbor, a former Army paratrooper who leaves pecan pie on his porch every Christmas, guilted him into it, saying the new residents needed to see the block had at least one guy who didn’t yell at Fox News all day.
He’s leaned against the thick oak at the edge of the cul-de-sac, half a PBR in one hand and half-eaten bratwurst in the other, mentally mapping the fastest route back to his garage when she steps in front of him to grab a seltzer from the cooler at his feet. Her bare shoulder brushes his forearm, warm and sun-kissed, coconut sunscreen drifting up to wrap around him before he can process the contact. He knows who she is. Elara Voss, the plant shop owner who moved into the old yellow ranch three houses down two months prior, ex-wife of the prick realtor who stiffed him $1200 on an Airstream restore last spring, the guy who called him a “grease monkey with a superiority complex” when Rafe refused to hand over the keys until he paid in full.
She holds his gaze for three beats longer than casual, a half-smirk tugging at her mouth, and the back of his neck heats up. “I heard you hated that guy more than I did,” she says, nodding at the empty folding chair next to him, and he’s so surprised he doesn’t argue when she sits. Her knee brushes his denim-clad thigh when she shifts to face him, calloused knuckles brushing his wrist when she takes the napkin he offers, and he can’t tell if the touches are accidental or intentional, doesn’t dare ask.
They talk over the hum of crickets and distant roar of a college kid’s pickup, charcoal and grilled onion scent wrapping around them as the sun bleeds pink over the rooflines. She tells him she left the realtor three weeks after the Airstream fight, found out he’d been scamming elderly clients out of home equity for two years, packed her car with 17 succulents and a vintage record player and drove east without a plan. He tells her he hasn’t been on a date since his wife left, spends most nights sanding camper paneling until his hands ache so bad he can’t overthink his empty house. He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but she doesn’t pity him, just laughs and says she spends most nights repotting fiddle leaf figs until her fingers are caked in soil, same vibe.
The crowd thins as the sky turns indigo, neighbors herding cranky kids into minivans or stumbling back to their houses with half-empty beers, and they’re the only two left on the curb when she leans in, her hand resting lightly on his arm, and kisses him. He tenses for half a second, old resentment for her ex flaring up, the stupid voice in his head saying this is wrong, you shouldn’t hook up with a guy’s ex even if he’s garbage, but then she pulls back half an inch, breath warm against his mouth, and says “I asked the neighbor lady about you. She said you bring her groceries when her knee acts up. You’re not as much of a grump as you pretend.”
He kisses her before he can overthink it, hand coming up to cup her jaw, calloused fingers brushing the soft skin behind her ear, tasting lime from her seltzer and faint sweetness of the cherry popsicle she ate 20 minutes earlier. A cricket chirps so close it makes him jump, and she laughs against his mouth, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape.
They hear the old paratrooper yell from his porch that he’s glad Rafe finally stopped moping, and she pulls back, grinning, digging a crumpled plant shop receipt out of her cutoff shorts and scrawling her number on the back in neon pink pen. She tucks it into the pocket of his grease-stained work flannel, patting his chest once before she stands. “I’ve got a 1968 VW bus parked behind my shop that needs a full restore,” she says, stepping back toward her house, bare feet light on warm asphalt. “Come by tomorrow at noon. We can talk numbers after we get tacos.”
She winks over her shoulder when she reaches her driveway, and he stands there until her front door clicks shut, the receipt crinkling under his fingers when he pulls it out to read the scrawled digits, a doodle of a potted cactus next to the numbers. He takes a sip of his now-warm PBR, shakes his head, and starts walking toward his house, already mentally clearing his schedule for the next three weeks.
