Rafe Mendez is 53, runs a vintage camping gear restoration shop out of a converted cinder block garage in western Colorado, and hasn’t voluntarily attended a town street fair since his wife left him for a ski instructor seven years prior. He’s only here now because his cousin, the fire chief, threatened to stop letting him tag along on wildfire training trips if he didn’t man the chili booth for four hours. The air smells like burnt cumin, cotton candy, and diesel fumes from the taco truck idling two spots over, and his work boots are sticky with spilled root beer. He slumps against the folding table, picking at a loose thread on his fire department volunteer tee, and tries not to make eye contact with anyone he knows.
He’s almost made it through the third hour when he sees her. Lila Marlow, the woman who bought the old general store three blocks from his shop three months prior, who he’s hidden from three separate times when she knocked on his shop door asking for help with something. Everyone in town knows not to mess with her: she’s the ex-wife of the county sheriff, who Rafe has had a petty, decade-long feud with after the man bailed on a backcountry hunting trip mid-blizzard, leaving Rafe and two other guys stranded for 36 hours. Gossip says the sheriff still stops by her used bookstore every Friday with a bag of peaches from his mom’s orchard, trying to win her back.
She’s wearing cutoff denim shorts, a faded Merle Haggard tee that hangs off one shoulder, and scuffed white converse, her auburn braid slung over one shoulder, a plastic cup of lemonade in one hand. When she stops in front of his booth, she leans in to yell over the country cover band playing on the main stage, and her elbow brushes his bicep when she reaches for a napkin stacked next to the chili pot. The contact is light, accidental, but Rafe’s whole arm tingles, and he fumbles the ladle he’s holding, clattering it against the edge of the pot.
“Not here for chili,” she says, grinning like she knows exactly how flustered he is. Her teeth are slightly crooked, her cheeks dusted with freckles from the high altitude sun, and she smells like lavender and fresh squeezed lemon. “Heard you’re the only guy within 50 miles who can fix a 1972 Coleman lantern I found in the store’s basement. Tried asking you three times already, but you kept hiding behind those stacks of old canvas tents you’ve got by the front door.”
Rafe flushes, because she’s right. Every time she knocked, he’d ducked down, pretended he was out, too stubborn to invite the drama that comes with being seen with the sheriff’s ex. He’s about to mumble some excuse about being backed up for months when a group of kids dart past, one slamming into Lila’s back, and she stumbles forward, her shoulder pressing firm against his chest for half a second before she catches herself on the edge of the table. Her lemonade sloshes over the rim, splattering his left work boot, and she huffs a laugh, bending down to dab at the wet spot with a napkin. Her fingers brush his ankle through the thin fabric of his work sock, and Rafe’s throat goes dry.
“Fine,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it. “Bring it by my shop after the fair wraps up. I don’t do house calls.”
She grins, bright and sharp, and leans in even closer, so her mouth is almost at his ear, the heat of her breath fanning over his neck. “I know you don’t. I also know the sheriff’s watching us from the corn dog stand right now, and you look like you’re about to pass out.”
Rafe glances past her, and sure enough, the sheriff is leaning against the side of the corn dog truck, glowering at him, a half-eaten corn dog in his hand. Rafe smirks, leans in just a little closer to Lila, so their foreheads are almost touching, and says, “Let him watch. I’m not scared of a guy who wears cowboy boots with a polo shirt.”
She laughs so hard she snorts, and swats his arm playfully. “I’ll be there at 7. Don’t hide this time. I brought IPA.”
The rest of his shift drags, Rafe replaying the last ten minutes on loop, half convinced he imagined the whole thing. When 6:45 rolls around, he dumps the leftover chili in a cooler for the other volunteers, locks up the booth, and walks back to his shop as fast as he can without running. She’s already sitting on his front porch, the dented green Coleman lantern at her feet, a six pack of his favorite IPA in her hand, just like she said.
He unlocks the shop door, fumbling with his keys a little, and lets her in. The air inside smells like canvas, metal polish, and the pine fire he lit in the small wood stove that morning to take the chill off. He sets the lantern on his workbench, and she hops up on the stool next to him, her bare knee brushing his under the bench. He picks up a screwdriver, runs his thumb over the chipped paint on the lantern’s side, and doesn’t look at her when he says, “I’m not good at this. The whole… letting people in thing.”
She reaches over, wraps her hand around his wrist, her palm warm and calloused from stacking books all day, and he finally looks up at her. “I don’t need you to be good at it,” she says, her voice soft, no teasing this time. “I just need you to stop hiding.”
He sets the screwdriver down, lifts his free hand, brushes a stray strand of hair off her face, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her cheek. She doesn’t pull away, just leans into the touch, her eyes never leaving his. Outside, the last of the fair fireworks go off, painting the cinder block walls pink and gold through the shop windows.
