Roman Voss, 62, restored antique typewriters out of a converted garage behind his coastal Oregon cottage, and he’d avoided every mandatory town “community bonding” event for six years. His only flaw, per his only friend Pete, was that he’d built a fortress around himself after his wife Ellie died of ovarian cancer, convinced any flicker of interest in another woman was unforgivable betrayal. He’d only shown up to the summer oyster roast because Pete texted three times saying he’d stashed a bucket of Roman’s favorite smoked Willapa Bay oysters behind the beer cooler, no small talk required.
He showed up in cuffed denim, work boots still dusted with typewriter ink and brass shavings, a faded 1990s Trail Blazers flannel over a worn white undershirt, and made a beeline for the cooler before anyone could flag him down. He spotted her before he could grab the bucket, though, leaning against the rough cedar railing at the park edge, holding a plastic cup of rosé, laughing at a local fisherman’s terrible salmon story. She was the new town librarian, 58, moved to town three months prior, the woman who’d dropped off a beat-up 1952 Smith Corona at his shop two weeks earlier. He’d fixed the stuck shift key for free after she showed up with a first edition of his favorite Louis L’Amour novel as a pre-emptive thank you, and he’d thought about her every night since, even when he called himself ridiculous.
She spotted him before he could duck out, waved, and pushed off the railing to walk over, her white linen button-down unbuttoned two notches, silver hoops catching the golden hour light, a faint smudge of charcoal on her left jaw from stamping library book spines that morning. She stood close enough when she stopped that he could smell jasmine perfume mixed with ocean salt, the faint tang of rosé in her cup. “Was starting to think you’d skip this one too,” she said, grinning, and he noticed the tiny scar at the corner of her left eye, from a childhood bike crash she’d mentioned when she dropped off the typewriter.
He mumbled something about only being there for the oysters, and she laughed that snort-laugh he’d liked the first time he heard it, her elbow brushing his forearm when she reached for a napkin on the cooler to wipe oyster juice off her thumb. He flinched a little before he could stop himself, not from discomfort, but surprise—he hadn’t been touched by anyone who wasn’t a grocery clerk in three years. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, just leaned against the cooler next to him, their shoulders almost touching, as they complained about new parking meters, teens leaving skate ramps on the beach path, how none of the new typewriter parts were half as good as 1950s stock.
He found himself leaning in when she talked, not because he couldn’t hear her over the crowd and crashing waves half a block away, but because he wanted to catch every lilt in her voice, every eye roll when she mentioned entitled tourists demanding she hold first editions for months without deposit. He’d spent weeks telling himself he didn’t need this, that casual conversation with a pretty woman would only lead to something he wasn’t ready for, that guilt would eat him alive if he let himself enjoy it, but all that noise went quiet when a group of kids chasing a golden retriever sprinted past, one slamming hard into her shoulder.
She stumbled forward, and he reacted without thinking, his palm flat against the linen of her shirt at her waist, holding her steady, fingers splayed just enough that he could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric. Her hand landed on his forearm to catch herself, fingers curling a little around the muscle there, and they held that position for three full beats, too long for a casual steadying, eyes locked, neither pulling away. The roar of the roast faded to a hum, all he could hear was waves, the distant jingle of the dog’s collar, his own heart beating so hard he was half convinced she could feel it through her shirt. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear, cheeks pink, “if you’d teach me to recondition a typewriter platen. I’ve got my mom’s old Royal I haven’t touched in 20 years.”
He knew it was an excuse. She knew he knew. He’d spent seven years fighting any flicker of desire, any urge to let someone new into his quiet routine, convinced he was being disloyal to Ellie, but right then all that resistance melted away. He nodded, let go of her waist slowly, fingers brushing the curve of her hip as he pulled back, and picked up the oyster bucket from behind the cooler. “My place is five minutes up the road,” he said, holding the bucket out to her. “I’ve got a Royal on the workbench right now. We can crack these open first, if you want.”
She grinned, reached into the bucket before he finished talking, popped an oyster into her mouth, wiped her hand on her khaki leg, and nodded. They walked out of the park together, her shoulder brushing his every few steps, sunset painting the sidewalk tangerine and lavender. He lifted his hand, brushed the charcoal smudge off her jaw with his thumb, skin lingering a split second against her soft cheek. She leaned into the touch just a little, her smile softening as they turned onto his street.
