Rafe Mendez, 53, makes his living restoring vintage camper vans out of a cinder block garage outside Fredericksburg, Texas. Eight years out from a messy divorce that left him wary of anyone who tried to get too close, he sticks to a small circle of friends, mostly fellow gearheads, and spends most weekends at small-town car shows and BBQ festivals where the only thing anyone expects from him is a comment on engine torque or a recipe for dry rub. He’s got a scar across his left knuckle from a 2019 restoration gone wrong, and a habit of pushing people away before they can get close enough to disappoint him, a flaw he’s never bothered to fix.
He’s leaning against the side of his award-winning 1972 VW Westfalia, sipping a lukewarm Shiner Bock, when he spots her. Mesquite smoke hangs thick in the late May air, sweat beading at the edge of his faded cowboy hat, and for a second he doesn’t recognize her: cutoff jean shorts, a threadbare Willie Nelson tee, sunburn peeling slightly across the bridge of her nose, a half-eaten plate of pork ribs in one hand. It’s Mara Carter, his old next-door neighbor’s daughter, the kid who used to sneak into his garage after school to steal sour patch kids from his workbench, who he’d last seen at her dad’s funeral 10 months prior, red-eyed and wearing a black dress that swallowed her whole.
She spots him before he can look away, grinning so wide the dimples in her cheeks show, and crosses the fairgrounds at a jog. She hugs him before he can react, her chest pressing warm against his shoulder for a beat longer than polite, the smell of coconut sunscreen and vanilla perfume wrapping around him, sharp and sweet over the smell of brisket. “Rafe, I knew that was your van,” she says, pulling back, her fingers still curled around his bicep. “I follow all your builds on Instagram. That 1969 Airstream you finished last month? Fucking gorgeous.”
He blinks, off-balance. He’s always thought of her as 12 years old, covered in grass stains, complaining about her math homework. Now she’s 27, a tiny cactus tattoo peeking out from her wrist, BBQ sauce glistening on her thumb. When she reaches up to wipe a smudge of sauce off his jaw, her calloused thumb brushes the stubble on his cheek, and he freezes, heat crawling up the back of his neck. The voice in his head screams that this is wrong, that her dad would have his head if he knew he was even noticing her like this, that the whole town would gossip for months if they saw them together.
She doesn’t seem to notice his panic, leaning against the van next to him, their knees bumping every time a group of kids runs past. She tells him she quit her corporate marketing job in Chicago, moved back to her dad’s house to settle his estate, has no plans to leave. She’s been fixing up the house herself, she says, but she can’t figure out what’s wrong with her dad’s 1968 Ford Bronco that’s been sitting in the driveway for three years. “I was gonna ask you to look at it,” she says, looking up at him through her lashes, holding eye contact a beat longer than necessary. “I’d pay you. Or bring you beer. Whatever you want.”
The sun dips below the oak trees as they talk, string lights strung across the fairgrounds flickering on, a cover band playing slow country covers at the other end of the field. She asks if he wants to walk down to the creek behind the fairgrounds, get away from the noise, and he hesitates for half a second before nodding. They walk down the dirt path, fireflies flickering in the brush, crickets chirping loud enough to drown out the music behind them. Her hand brushes his twice, then she laces her fingers through his, her palm soft and warm against his calloused one. He doesn’t pull away.
They stop at the bank of the creek, the water gurgling soft over smooth stones, and she turns to him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 16,” she says, no hesitation, no embarrassment. “I used to make up excuses to go over to your garage just to watch you work. You never even looked at me back then.” He doesn’t say anything, just leans in, kisses her slow. She tastes like peach iced tea and the cherry lollipop she’d been sucking on earlier, her arms looping around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, still damp from the afternoon heat.
When they pull away, she’s grinning, her cheeks pink. “You’ll come look at the Bronco tomorrow?” she asks, and he nods, already mentally clearing his schedule for the whole day. “I’ll make pancakes,” she says, kissing his cheek before she turns to walk back up the path. He watches her go, then leans back against an oak tree, pulling out his phone to save her number, the voice in his head that was screaming about rules and gossip quiet for the first time in years. He types a quick text promising he’ll bring extra maple syrup, hitting send before he can overthink it.
