Rafe Mendez, 52, makes his living restoring vintage campers out of a cinder block shop on the edge of Asheville, North Carolina. He’s avoided anything resembling a date since his divorce eight years prior, stubbornly convinced any romantic entanglement at his age is just a shortcut to missed payments, nagging text chains, and the same kind of quiet resentment that ended his marriage—his ex had left him for a plumber half his age who’d sold them a faulty water heater for their old Airstream, a slight he still hasn’t fully shaken. The last time he’d seen his ex-wife’s niece Lila, she was 20, slouched in the back of their family cookout eating potato salad and rolling her eyes at his ex’s rants about his “stupid old camper hobby.” He hadn’t thought of her in years, not until she taps his shoulder at the small town summer beer festival, and he turns to find her grinning up at him, a half-empty cherry seltzer in one hand, a potted succulent peeking out of her canvas tote bag.
He blinks, at first not placing her, until she laughs and says she recognized the grease stain permanently stuck to the knee of his Carhartts, the same one he’d worn to every family event back when he was married. She’s 38 now, runs a small plant shop in the downtown district she opened three months prior, moved across the state to get away from her family’s constant meddling in her love life. She stands so close he can smell jasmine perfume mixed with the pine wafting from the tree line behind the festival grounds, and when she reaches past him to grab a truffle fry off the paper plate he’s holding, her elbow brushes the bare skin of his forearm, sending a sharp, unexpected jolt up his spine.
He tells himself he should step back, that this is a terrible idea. His ex would lose her mind if she found out they were even talking, and he’s got enough drama in his life without adding family politics to the mix. But she doesn’t let him leave, teases him about the fact that he finally turned that stupid old camper hobby into a real business, says she’s been scouring Facebook Marketplace for a tiny 1960s Scotty to turn into a pop-up plant stand for local farmers markets. He offers to show her the three he’s got halfway restored at his shop before he can think better of it, and her face lights up so bright he doesn’t even regret the impulsive offer, not even a little.
The drive back to his shop is quiet, the windows rolled down, the sound of crickets and old Merle Haggard coming through the truck’s beat up speakers. When he pulls open the garage door, golden hour light slants across the concrete floor, catching the sawdust and citrus cleaner fumes that hang thick in the air. He leads her over to the 1968 Scotty Sportsman he’s been working on for a client, leans in to point out the custom cedar counter he installed by the sink, and when he turns to make sure she’s following what he’s saying, their faces are only inches apart. He can see the faint smattering of freckles across her nose, the way her eyes dart down to his mouth for half a second before she meets his gaze again.
The voice in the back of his head is screaming that this is wrong, that he’s crossing a line he can’t uncross, that he’ll hate himself in the morning for messing with anyone related to his ex. But then she puts her hand flat on his chest, right over the faded logo on his work shirt, and kisses him, and every single one of his objections fades away. She tastes like cherry seltzer and peppermint lip balm, and her fingers are soft when they tangle in the graying hair at the nape of his neck, and for the first time in almost a decade, he doesn’t overthink a single thing.
They sit on the scuffed wooden bench by his workbench later, their shoulders pressed together, as she asks him a hundred questions about the camper he’s restoring for his own use, the 1972 Airstream he’s been fixing up slow for two years. She traces the thin, pale scar across his left knuckle, the one he got from a circular saw accident last spring, and asks him if he wants to get al pastor tacos from the food truck down the street tomorrow night, no pressure, no strings, just tacos and maybe a beer if he’s feeling it. He nods, no hesitation, no overthinking about what his ex would say, no worrying about the small town gossips who will definitely see them out together and run their mouths. He picks up her half-empty bottle of cherry seltzer off the workbench, twists the cap back on, and tucks it into the side pocket of her canvas tote for her.
