Elias Voss, 57, had only agreed to set up a booth at the annual Madison County Trout Festival because his childhood buddy, the event organizer, had showed up on his porch with a case of his favorite IPA and a sob story about low vendor turnout. He’d spent six hours demonstrating how to wrap carbon fiber rod guides, his calloused fingers moving over the thread with the muscle memory of 22 years in the custom fly rod building business, and by 8 PM he’d ducked into the beer tent to escape the crowd of overexcited kids and retired fishermen asking for free gear.
The tent reeked of fried catfish, spilled lager, and pine drifting in from the surrounding national forest. A bluegrass band plucked a wobbly version of “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” from the main stage 100 yards away, and the plastic table under his forearms was sticky with old soda. He was halfway through his second beer, mentally running through the list of rods he needed to finish by the end of the week, when a shadow fell across his table.
He looked up, and for half a second he didn’t recognize her. The lanky, brace-faced 12-year-old he’d taught to cast a fly line on the French Broad River was gone, replaced by Lila Marlow, 38, the county’s new wildlife officer, her uniform shirt sleeves rolled up to show freckled forearms crisscrossed with small scars from thorns and fish hooks, a silver wildlife badge glinting on her chest. She grinned, the same gap between her two front teeth she’d had since she face-planted off his boat when she was 13, and pulled out the chair next to him. Her knee brushed his under the table the second she sat down, warm and solid through his worn denim jeans, and he caught a whiff of citrus shampoo and the earthy pine of the tick repellent she wore on patrol.
He made small talk at first, stiff, still stuck on the memory of tucking her into the backseat of his old Ford F-150 wrapped in a blanket after cold fishing trips, her face smudged with marshmallow from campfire s’mores. She laughed when he complained about the festival’s rock-hard cotton candy, and her hand landed on his forearm for three full seconds, her palm warm through the thin fabric of his flannel shirt. The twist in his gut was half sharp, unnameable desire he hadn’t felt since his wife Elaine died eight years prior, half hot, crawling guilt, like he was doing something wrong just by sitting next to her and noticing how the string lights caught the gold flecks in her hazel eyes.
He made a half-hearted excuse to leave, already reaching for his truck keys on the table, but she put her hand over his to stop him. Her fingers were calloused too, from hauling fishing nets and patrolling mountain trails, and he froze, his skin tingling where they touched. She said she’d been meaning to track him down for months, had saved up for a custom rod, had been too nervous to knock on his workshop door because she’d heard he hated visitors these days. She told him she’d moved back to the county six months prior, after a messy divorce from a guy who’d hated living in small towns, hated that she’d rather spend her weekends fishing than going to fancy dinner parties in Charlotte.
He found himself telling her things he hadn’t told anyone else, about how he’d almost shut down his business last winter, spent three weeks sitting in his workshop staring at half-finished rods, lonely enough that he’d started talking to the stray cat that hung around his back porch. She leaned in when he talked, her face only a foot away from his, their knees still pressed together under the table, neither of them moving to shift apart. When she passed him a fresh beer she’d grabbed from the cooler, her knuckles brushed his, and he didn’t flinch away this time.
By 10 PM, the tent was almost empty, the bluegrass band had packed up their instruments, and a light, cold rain was starting to fall outside, tapping against the canvas roof. She bit her lip, looked down at the table for half a second, then met his gaze again, steady. She said she didn’t want to go home to her empty rental trailer, asked if she could come see his workshop first, said she’d always thought it was a magical place when she was a kid. He hesitated for only a second, then nodded, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair.
They ran through the rain to his truck, her huddling close under his jacket, her shoulder pressed tight to his chest, and he could feel her heart beating fast through the fabric. When they pulled up to his house, he led her around back to the detached workshop, flipping on the string lights strung above the workbench when they stepped inside. The air smelled like cedar shavings, epoxy, and the peppermint candle he lit to keep the mice away. She ran her finger along the line of half-finished rods propped against the wall, her face soft, and said she’d had a crush on him since she was 16, had never said anything because he was married, and she’d been sure he only ever saw her as the annoying kid who kept dropping her fishing rod in the river.
He stared at her for a long time, the guilt he’d been carrying all night melting away, replaced by a warm, slow buzz that had nothing to do with the beer. He lifted his hand, brushing a strand of wet hair off her forehead, his calloused thumb grazing the soft skin of her cheek. She tilted her chin up, and he leaned down to kiss her, slow and soft, no rush, the rain tapping steadily against the metal workshop roof, the stray cat curled on the windowsill watching them. When he pulled back, she smiled, and laced her fingers through his, tugging him toward the workbench to show him the crumpled sketch she’d drawn of the rod she wanted him to build.
