Javi Mendez, 52, made his living sanding dents out of vintage aluminum travel trailers and patching leaky rubber roofs for folks who’d rather chase sunsets than pay a mortgage on a second home. He’d built his small Flagstaff shop from scratch after his wife packed up their suburban house and moved to Austin seven years prior, and he’d guarded his quiet, uncomplicated routine like a junkyard dog ever since. No dates, no unnecessary commitments, no drama that didn’t involve a stuck sewage line or a rotted floor joist. The only exception was the monthly vintage camper meetup at the beer garden three blocks from his shop, where he’d drink one hazy IPA, eat three carnitas tacos from the food truck parked by the gate, and chat with other gear heads about axle weights and solar panel upgrades for exactly two hours before heading home.
The July sun was dipping low enough to paint the pine tops pink when he spotted Lila carrying a tray of loaded street corn toward a group of retirees with a fleet of mint-condition 1950s Scotty campers. She ran the taco truck, had moved to town from Portland six months prior after her husband died of a sudden heart attack, and Javi had avoided talking to her for longer than 30 seconds since the day his buddy Ted had asked her out and gotten a polite but firm no. He’d told himself it was respect for Ted, mostly, but the truth was he’d felt a flutter in his chest the first time she’d handed him a taco and laughed at his dumb joke about burnt carnitas tasting better than overpriced craft beer, and he’d been disgusted with himself for it ever since. He didn’t do crushes. He didn’t do messy, small-town dating that would turn his regular beer garden stop into an awkward obligation if it went south.
She caught him staring halfway across the lot, tilted her head, and changed direction, heading straight for the folding chair next to his polished 1962 Airstream Bambi. He froze mid-sip of his beer, his ears going warm, as she dropped the tray on the weathered picnic table next to him and sat down, her denim-clad knee brushing his when she crossed her legs. The scent of coconut sunscreen and smoked paprika hit him first, sharp and warm, followed by the faint click of her silver hoop earrings knocking together when she nodded at his half-empty beer can. “You’re here early,” she said, grinning, and he noticed a smudge of chili powder high on her left cheek, bright orange against her sun-kissed skin. “Thought you’d be hiding under a trailer fixing a water line until 8.”
He huffed a laugh, shifting in his seat, his elbow brushing her arm when he set his beer down. “Got done with a 1968 Aristocrat restoration early. Customer picked it up an hour ago, paid cash, no complaints about the custom cabinetry, no dumb requests to add a neon beer sign above the sink.” He nodded at the street corn on the tray. “Those for me?” She laughed, pushing one across the table to him, her fingers brushing his when he grabbed the husk. The contact was tiny, accidental, but he felt a jolt run up his arm, like he’d touched a live 12-volt wire from a camper battery. He stared at the corn instead of her, peeling back the charred husk, and cursed himself for being a 52-year-old man acting like a teenager at his first high school dance. He could leave right now, he thought. Make up an excuse about a leak in his shop’s supply line, go home to his quiet couch and his scruffy beagle, and avoid the whole mess entirely.
“You been staring at my cheek for five minutes,” she said, leaning in close enough that he could taste the lime on her breath, “you gonna tell me I have chili powder on my face, or you gonna wipe it off yourself?” He froze, his plastic fork halfway to his mouth, and looked up at her. Her dark eyes were glinting, playful, no trace of awkwardness, and he realized she’d been waiting for him to make a move this whole time. The urge to run warred with the urge to reach out, the voice in his head screaming that this would ruin everything, that he was better off alone, fighting the warm, tight feeling in his chest that he hadn’t felt in almost a decade.
He lifted his hand, slow, like he was approaching a skittish stray that might bolt if he moved too fast, and brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheek, wiping the orange powder away. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back, just kept looking at him, a small, soft smile playing on her lips. “Ted told me you asked him not to ask me out again,” she said, quiet enough that only he could hear it over the hum of classic rock playing over the garden’s speakers. “Said you thought I was off limits. For the record, I turned him down because I’d already been asking the guys at the meetup about the quiet trailer restorer who only orders carnitas, extra lime, no cilantro.”
He laughed, shaking his head, the tight knot of anxiety in his chest unraveling so fast he felt lightheaded. “I’m an idiot,” he said, and she grinned, nodding in obvious agreement. “I got that Airstream behind me, fully restored. Has a king size bed, a solar powered fridge full of cold IPA, and the best view of the Sedona red rocks if you park it at the overlook off Highway 89A. You got any plans next weekend?” She stole a sip of his beer, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, and stood up, squeezing his shoulder firmly before she turned to head back to her truck. “I finish up at the truck at 7 on Friday,” she said, over her shoulder, as a group of campers waved her over for an order. “Don’t be late.”
He watched her walk away, the string lights strung above the beer garden flickering on one by one as the sky turned deep, velvety purple. He took a bite of the street corn, the chili, lime and cotija cheese bursting on his tongue, and leaned back in his chair, kicking his scuffed work boots up on the picnic table leg. His beagle, Moe, trotted over and dropped a chewed up neon green tennis ball at his feet, and he reached down to scratch him behind the ears, smiling to himself when he heard Lila’s loud, unselfconscious laugh carry across the lot.
