Rafe Aguilar, 53, makes his living restoring antique fire trucks out of a converted 1950s fire station in the foothills of western North Carolina. He’s got a permanent smudge of fire truck red paint along his left jawline, grease under his fingernails that never fully scrubs out, and a rule he’s stuck to for 8 years, ever since his wife packed her bags and moved to Asheville with a real estate agent: no dating anyone within a 20-mile radius. Small town gossip moves faster than a pumper with a blown carburetor, and he’s got no interest in being the topic of the VFW fish fry weekly hot take.
He’s leaning against the bed of his dented 2001 F-150 outside that same fish fry on a crisp October Friday when he spots her. Paper plate loaded with fried catfish, hushpuppies still steaming, he’s half listening to a 72-year-old retired Army vet ramble about his time in Korea when she laughs, loud and bright, from the picnic table three feet away. Lila Marlow, 47, the kid sister of his ex-wife’s childhood best friend, just moved back to town last month after 20 years working as a travel nurse in emergency rooms across the west. He hasn’t seen her since she was 17, dyed blue hair, sneaking into the high school bonfires with a six pack of cheap beer tucked in her backpack. Now she’s got faint silver streaks threading through her dark brown hair, a caduceus tattoo curling around her left wrist, and worn Wranglers that fit her hips like they were custom made.
She turns, catches him staring, and grins, pushing off the picnic table to walk over. The scent of coconut shampoo mixes with the fried fish and pine drifting from the woods behind the VFW as she stops close enough that his shoulder brushes hers when he shifts his weight. “You’re the guy who fixed my busted bicycle when I was 12, right?” she says, nodding at the fire department logo stitched to his faded hoodie. “I brought you lemonade every day that week you worked on my dad’s old Chevy pickup senior year. You never even said thank you.”
He snorts, holding out his plate. She plucks a hushpuppy off the top, their fingers brushing for a beat longer than necessary. Her skin is warm, calloused at the fingertips from starting IVs and hauling medical equipment, and he feels a jolt shoot up his arm that has nothing to do with the cold. He holds her eye contact, hazel flecked with green, gilded by the setting sun, and his chest tightens. He knows half the people here are already glancing their way. His ex-wife’s cousin is manning the fryer, for Christ’s sake, and by 8 a.m. tomorrow every house within 10 miles will have heard that Rafe Aguilar was flirting with Lila Marlow at the fish fry. The old, familiar urge to step back, mumble an excuse, and drive home alone tugs at him.
“You gonna offer me a tour of that 1962 Mack pumper you’re restoring or not?” she says, tilting her head. “I drove by your shop twice this week. Looked like you were making good progress on the fenders.”
He hesitates for half a second, then nods. They walk the two blocks to his shop in silence, the air sharp enough that she shoves her hand into the pocket of his work jacket to warm up, their knuckles brushing the whole way. When he unlocks the big roll-up door and flicks on the string lights strung above the pumper, she lets out a low whistle, running her palm along the polished red fender. “I always thought you were the quiet hot guy in town who never gave anyone the time of day,” she says, turning to face him, so close he can feel her breath on his neck.
He doesn’t overthink it. He leans in, kisses her slow, the smell of old rubber and gasoline mixing with that coconut shampoo, the hum of the space heater in the corner the only sound besides their breathing. When they pull back, he’s laughing, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t made in years. “I spent 8 years avoiding this exact thing,” he says, nodding at the shop door, where he can hear a couple of locals walking past, joking loud enough to carry through the metal. “Figured gossip wasn’t worth the hassle.”
She grins, slipping her arms around his waist. “Let ’em talk. I’m tired of caring what a bunch of people who still bring up the 1998 high school football loss at every cookout think.”
He reaches for her hand, laces his grease-stained fingers through hers, and leads her up the narrow wooden stairs to the small apartment he keeps above the shop.