Rafe Mendez, 52, makes his living restoring vintage campers out of a converted hay barn 12 miles outside Boise, his calloused palms crisscrossed with tiny scars from sanding fiberglass and soldering copper water lines, a three-inch burn snaking up his left forearm from a 2021 wiring fire he still jokes he “walked off like an idiot.” He’d avoided the town’s annual summer beer festival for three straight years after his wife left him for a real estate agent from Salt Lake, sick of the sideways glances, the awkward “how are you holding up” small talk from people he’d known since high school, but his old welding buddy had pressed a free ticket into his hand the week prior, so he’d showed up, thrown on a faded 1998 Pearl Jam tour tee and work boots still caked with pine sap, grabbed a hazy IPA, and leaned against a lamppost half-watching a local bluegrass band butcher a John Prine cover.
He was 10 seconds from cutting out early when a group of teens armed with super soakers darted past, and he stepped off the curb to avoid getting sprayed, bumping straight into someone hard enough to slosh half his beer down the front of their skirt. He swore under his breath, grabbing a handful of napkins from a nearby food truck table, and looked up to see Elara Voss, the 48-year-old librarian who’d moved to town six months prior, the same woman he’d only ever seen behind the library checkout desk in frumpy cardigans and reading glasses on a beaded chain, now standing in front of him in a slinky navy linen skirt, hair loose over her shoulders, a half-smoked menthol tucked behind her ear, no glasses in sight. He stammered out an apology, dabbing at the dark wet splotch on her skirt before he realized his knuckles were brushing the soft skin of her thigh, and he froze, half-expecting her to yank away. She didn’t. She laughed, low and warm, and said it was fine, she’d hated that skirt anyway.
He offered to buy her a replacement drink to make up for it, and they found an empty picnic table on the far edge of the festival grounds, far enough away from the crowd that no one he knew would stop to pester them. She told him she’d been sneaking cigarettes since she was 17, raised by strict evangelical parents who’d banned everything from secular music to pants for women, that the whole town’s perception of her as a prim, boring rule-follower was the best act she’d ever pulled off. He showed her photos on his phone of the 1972 Airstream he was wrapping up for a client in Portland, the custom cedar cabinets he’d milled himself, the tiny cast iron wood stove he’d installed for winter camping trips. She leaned in as he swiped through the photos, her bare shoulder brushing his bicep, and he could smell jasmine perfume mixed with the faint tang of menthol and fried oreos drifting over from the food trucks, the noise of the bluegrass band fading into background hum. He fought the urge to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, convinced that if anyone saw them together the whole town would be gossiping by sunrise, that he was too messy, too much of a reclusive burnout, for someone everyone thought was so put-together.
The sun dipped below the foothills as the festival wrapped up, painting the sky streaky pink and tangerine, and she asked if he’d mind driving her out to his barn to see the Airstream in person, said she’d inherited a beat-up 1968 pop-up from her dad a year prior and had been meaning to ask him about fixing it up for months but had been too nervous to stop by the shop. He hesitated for half a second, then nodded, leading her to his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150, holding the passenger door open for her. When she climbed up, her hand brushed his, and she laced their fingers together for three slow beats before letting go, like she was testing the waters.
The drive out to the barn was quiet, the windows rolled down, warm summer air blowing through the cab, a Tom Petty deep cut playing low on the radio. He flipped on the overhead lights when they walked into the barn, and the polished silver Airstream glinted like a gem under the glow. He led her inside, pointing out the little details he’d custom built, the under-cabinet lighting, the hidden storage under the bench seats. When he turned around to ask what she thought, she was standing so close her chest was almost touching his, her hand resting light on his scarred forearm, her breath warm against his neck. He didn’t overthink it, didn’t talk himself out of it, just leaned down and kissed her, the faint taste of menthol and hard seltzer on her lips.
An hour later, they were sitting side by side on the Airstream’s built-in bench, sharing a bottle of cheap cabernet he kept stashed in the mini fridge for clients, the window cracked to let out the smoke from her cigarette, the radio still playing old 90s rock low enough not to bother the neighbors. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he rested his hand on her bare knee, the fabric of her skirt still a little damp from the beer he’d spilled earlier. He reached over, tapped her half-finished cigarette into a dented Dr Pepper can he used as an ashtray, and brushed a stray strand of hair off her face.
