Ray Gallegos, 52, has restored 37 vintage travel trailers in the seven years since his wife packed a duffel and drove south to Albuquerque without a note. He runs his shop out of a cinder-block barn on 10 acres outside Santa Fe, wears Carhartts covered in Bondo dust and a faded St. Jude medal his abuela gave him when he was 16, and has turned down three separate sets of blind date setups from his regular customers this year alone. His biggest flaw? He’s convinced every friendly smile from a woman within a 20 mile radius is either pity for his failed marriage, or a setup for small town gossip he doesn’t have the patience for.
He’s at the annual summer craft beer and classic vehicle festival on the edge of town when he first spots her, wiping chrome polish off the bumper of a mint 1962 Airstream he just finished for a client in Portland. The sun is low, gilding the pine trees, and the air smells like hops, smoked brisket, and the citrus spray he uses to buff aluminum. He hears a laugh he’d recognize even if he hadn’t heard it a hundred times at family cookouts 20 years prior, and looks up to find Elara Mendez leaning against the folding table he’d set up next to the trailer, holding a pork tamale wrapped in corn husk, her boot propped on the table leg. She’s his ex-wife’s first cousin, moved back to town six months prior after her son left for college in Boulder, and Ray has gone out of his way to avoid her every time he’s spotted her at the grocery store or the gas station since she got back.
She’s close enough he can smell cinnamon and cumin and the faint coconut scent of her sunscreen, and when she holds out the tamale to him, his knuckles brush hers when he reaches for it. The contact sends a jolt up his arm he didn’t expect, and he pulls his hand back fast like he’s touched a hot exhaust pipe. She smirks, holding his gaze, no hint of embarrassment. “Relax, I didn’t poison it. I make these myself, sell them out of the food truck by the entrance. Figured you’d be hungry, you’ve been hovering over that tin can since 8 a.m.”
He takes the tamale, peels back the husk, takes a bite. It’s perfect, spicy and tender, the masa just crumbly enough. He mumbles a thanks, avoids her eyes, goes back to wiping the bumper. She doesn’t leave. She asks about the Airstream, listens when he talks about the custom oak cabinets he built, the solar panels he installed on the roof, the vintage retro fridge he tracked down on eBay from a collector in Iowa. When a group of kids on dirt bikes zoom past too close, she steps into him to avoid getting clipped, her shoulder pressing firm into his bicep, and he doesn’t move away. He can feel the warmth of her through his flannel shirt, and for a second he forgets how to finish his sentence about the trailer’s plumbing.
She mentions she heard his ex got remarried in Tucson last month, and he freezes. He hadn’t known that. He’d blocked all his ex’s family on social media three years prior, stopped going to any event he thought she might be at. “Yeah,” Elara says, kicking a loose rock across the grass, “she married a real estate agent. Bought a house with a pool. Seems happy.” Ray nods, doesn’t say anything. He’d stopped caring if she was happy a long time ago, but the news feels like a weight off his shoulders he didn’t know he was carrying.
He’s always thought Elara was the better of the two sisters, back when he was married. Warmer, funnier, didn’t complain when he spent 12 hours a day in the shop, didn’t roll her eyes when he talked about trailer axles or engine parts. He’d thought she was off limits, obviously, married to her cousin, didn’t even let himself look at her too long at family gatherings. Now, as the sun dips below the mountains and most of the festival crowd packs up to leave, he finds he doesn’t want her to go.
He offers her a cold IPA from the cooler he’d brought, nods at the Airstream door. “Wanna see the inside? I strung fairy lights up, the client wanted it to feel cozy for camping trips.” She nods, steps past him into the trailer, and he closes the door behind them. The space is small, warm, the fairy lights casting soft gold over the oak cabinets, the plaid couch he’d reupholstered himself. She leans against the counter, sipping her beer, and he steps close enough he can feel her breath on his jaw. “I stopped by your shop three times in the last two months,” she says, quiet, like she’s admitting something she’s embarrassed by. “You always acted like you were too busy to talk.”
He laughs, quiet, runs a hand through his graying hair. “I thought if I talked to you, people would talk. Thought they’d say I was the guy who left his wife for her cousin, or some garbage like that. I didn’t want the drama.” She snorts, sets her beer down on the counter, reaches up to brush a fleck of Bondo dust off his cheek. Her hand is calloused from rolling masa 10 hours a day, and he leans into the touch before he can stop himself. “You’ve been a coward for 20 years,” she says, soft, no bite to the words. “I waited long enough for you to get over yourself.”
He kisses her then, slow, and she tastes like tamale and horchata and the IPA she’s been drinking. Her hands loop around his neck, and he pulls her closer, his hands settling on her hips, and for the first time in seven years he doesn’t care what anyone in town might say.
They’re interrupted a few minutes later by a sharp knock on the Airstream door. Ray yanks it open, and it’s his neighbor Jake, who’s been showing off his 1972 Ford F-150 at the festival, holding Ray’s toolbox that he’d left on the picnic table outside. Jake grins, winks, nods past him at Elara, who’s sitting on the couch fixing her hair, looking amused. “Figured I’d drop this off before I headed home,” Jake says, handing him the toolbox. “Didn’t want to interrupt, but you’d throw a fit if you lost that 10mm socket you’re always complaining about.” Ray laughs, takes the toolbox, thanks him, and Jake waves, walks off to his truck.
Ray turns back to Elara, leaning against the doorframe, and she raises an eyebrow at him. “You gonna ask me out for breakfast tomorrow, or you gonna make me wait another 20 years?” she says. Ray grabs his flannel off the hook by the door, shoves his keys in his pocket, and holds out a hand to her. He doesn’t say anything, just laces his fingers through hers when she takes his hand, and leads her out of the Airstream toward his truck, the sky dark above them, dotted with the first stars of the night.