Elroy Voss, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, had manned the block party grill every July for 19 years straight. He knew the exact heat to get bratwurst casings to snap without burning the meat inside, knew which kids snuck extra bags of chips, knew which neighbors would corner him to beg for custom cutting boards for their kids’ weddings. For 8 of those years, he’d also turned down every half-joking suggestion from friends that he bring a date, the twist of guilt in his gut sharp enough to make him change the subject every time. He’d spent 32 years married to Linda, and the idea of letting someone else take the spot next to him at any event felt like a betrayal, even if she’d laughed and told him from her hospice bed that if he didn’t find someone to annoy after she was gone, she’d hide all his favorite chisels.
The July air hung thick with clover and charcoal smoke when he first spotted her. She was leaning against the split-rail fence across the street, holding a lime seltzer, the hem of her navy sundress brushing the tops of her scuffed white sneakers. Silver streaks cut through her auburn hair, pulled loose by the wind, and when she caught him staring she didn’t look away, just lifted her can in a small toast, one corner of her mouth tugging up in a smirk. He wiped his grease-stained hands on his Carhartt apron and nodded back, his ears going warm, annoyed at himself for even noticing.
She made her way over 10 minutes later, asking if there were any brats left without sauerkraut. When he handed her the paper plate, their fingers brushed, and he felt the rough, familiar calluses on her fingertips, the kind you get from working with your hands, not typing at a desk. “You carve?” he asked before he could stop himself. She nodded, holding up her left hand to show the faint scar across her thumb from a slip with a gouge last winter. “Maren Hale, new county librarian. Only do small hand carvings, though. Been trying to find someone to teach me how to turn bowls on a lathe for months.”
He froze for half a second. His garage workshop had three lathes, two he’d bought used, one he’d restored himself, and he taught free classes there for vets and at-risk teens every Saturday. The offer was on the tip of his tongue, but that familiar guilt twisted again, sharp and hot, like he was doing something wrong just talking to her this long. He mumbled something about most local classes being full, and turned back to the grill, kicking himself for being an idiot.
She didn’t leave. She leaned against the picnic table next to him, talking about the pile of old woodworking manuals she’d found in the library’s basement, about the spalted maple blank she’d bought at a yard sale last month that she was too scared to ruin. By the time the sun dipped below the oak trees at the end of the block, most of the neighbors had packed up their coolers and headed inside, the only sounds left the distant hum of a lawnmower two streets over and the crickets starting to chirp in the bushes.
He invited her to sit on his porch steps without thinking, grabbing two cold IPAs from his cooler on the way. She pulled a pack of menthols from her back pocket, asked if he minded, and he shook his head, thinking of the nights he and Linda had sat on those same steps smoking after their son left for college, complaining about the kids who left glue all over his workbenches and the parents who called to yell about bad grades.
She leaned in to look at the photos of his bowl turnings on his phone a few minutes later, her shoulder pressing firm against his, and he could smell her perfume, vanilla and cedar, mixed with the faint menthol on her breath and the charcoal smoke still clinging to his shirt. His heart hammered so hard he was sure she could hear it, half of him screaming to pull away, half of him leaning into the warmth of her, the way she laughed at his dumb joke about the time he turned a bowl so uneven it wobbled for 10 seconds after he set it down.
He kissed her before he could overthink it, tilting his head so his forehead didn’t bump hers, and she kissed him back, her hand cupping the side of his face, the callus on her thumb brushing the stubble on his jaw. The guilt didn’t hit him like he expected it to. All he felt was the soft press of her mouth, the cool of her beer can against his wrist, the quiet rustle of the oak leaves above them, and he remembered Linda’s threat to hide his chisels, loud and clear in his head, like she was standing right next to him laughing.
She pulled back after a minute, grinning, her cheeks pink, and brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “I’m free tomorrow afternoon, if you still have that lathe you mentioned,” she said, tapping the scar on her thumb. “I even brought that spalted maple blank in my car, just in case.”
He nodded, already mentally clearing off the workbench in the garage, making sure the AC was working, that he had extra gouges sharpened and ready. He walked her to her car, parked at the curb, and leaned against the doorframe after she climbed in. She rolled the window down, handing him a slip of paper with her phone number scrawled on it in blue ink. “Text me when you’re free tomorrow,” she said, putting the car in drive.
He stood on the curb long after she drove away, the slip of paper crumpled slightly in his hand, the ghost of her kiss still on his mouth. He didn’t feel guilty. He felt light, like the weight he’d been carrying around for 8 years had lifted just a little, enough to let him breathe easy for the first time in forever. He turned and walked back up the porch steps, already making a mental list of snacks to pick up for the next day, and spotted his favorite ½ inch gouge, the one he’d sworn he lost last week, sitting on the porch rail glinting in the streetlight.
