Silas Marlow is 57, makes his living restoring vintage typewriters out of a cinder block workshop behind his bungalow in west Asheville. His biggest flaw is that he’s carried a grudge against casual socializing ever since his wife left him for a 28-year-old SaaS sales rep eight years prior, going so far as to lie about being out of town to skip neighborhood barbecues and holiday potlucks. He only agreed to come to the summer block party this year because his next door neighbor had covered his vet bill when his senior beagle ate a whole pack of rubber typewriter erasers, and he owed her a favor.
He’s been planted by the taco truck for 45 minutes, wearing a frayed gray flannel even with the humidity clinging to the back of his neck, grease crusted under three fingernails he didn’t bother scrubbing before he left, sipping a lukewarm Pabst and counting down the minutes until he can leave without being rude. The air smells like grilled carne asada and cherry Kool-Aid, kids shriek as they chase each other with water guns, and the local classic rock cover band is butchering a Tom Petty track so badly he’s half tempted to stuff napkins in his ears.
He’s just decided he can sneak out in five minutes when he spots her. Lila Carter, his ex-wife’s younger sister, 49, a travel nurse who just moved back to town last month after spending three years working ER shifts in Alaska. He hasn’t seen her in six years, not since his divorce was finalized, and he freezes mid-sip when she meets his eye across the crowd, smirks, and starts walking his way. She’s wearing cutoff jean shorts and a faded Pearl Jam tee, scuffed white Converse, a tattoo of sunflowers wrapped around a caduceus curling up her left forearm, a streak of silver cutting through her auburn bangs that wasn’t there the last time he saw her.
They both reach for the same cold can of horchata in the ice bucket next to the taco truck at the exact same time. His knuckles brush hers, cold from the ice, her skin softer than he expects, and he yanks his hand back like he touched a hot soldering iron, mumbling a clumsy apology. She laughs, a low, warm sound he remembers from family holidays decades ago, grabs the can, and pops the top before he can protest. “I’ll split it with you,” she says, grabbing two paper cups from the stack next to the bucket, pouring equal portions. “No point fighting over the good stuff, right?”
He takes the cup she holds out, his fingers brushing hers again, this time on purpose just for half a second, and he has to fight the urge to flinch. He’s spent 10 years telling himself she’s off limits, that even thinking about her is a betrayal of the marriage he spent 12 years building, that the neighbors would whisper if they saw them talking alone. He wants to make an excuse, leave, go back to his workshop where he doesn’t have to deal with the twist in his stomach when she leans in to talk over the band, her shoulder pressing lightly against his, the scent of coconut sunscreen and cedar perfume wrapping around him.
She mentions the Instagram reel he posted last week, of him restoring a 1952 Royal typewriter for a high school student’s senior project, and he blinks in surprise. He only posts the reels to get more business, never thought anyone he actually knew would watch them. She says she’s followed his account for two years, never reached out because she knew he hated running into anyone connected to his ex, that she always thought he was too good for her sister anyway, that she’s wanted to ask him out for coffee since she found out she was moving back to town.
A kid running full tilt with a super soaker slams into his back, and he stumbles forward, his hand landing on her waist to steady both of them. She doesn’t pull away. She tilts her chin up, her hazel eyes bright, no trace of humor on her face, and he realizes he’s spent 8 years hiding from anything that might make him feel less like a ghost walking through his own life, that he doesn’t care what the neighbors say, that the grudge he’s been carrying isn’t worth throwing away the first thing that’s made his chest feel light in a decade.
He asks her if she wants to ditch the block party, head back to his workshop, he’s got a 1936 Underwood he’s restoring for a museum in Charlotte he’s been dying to show someone who might actually care. She grins, laces her fingers through his, her palms calloused from years of starting IVs, warm even through the grease on his knuckles. He tosses his half-finished beer in the nearby trash can, doesn’t even bother waving at his neighbor to let her know he’s leaving, and walks her toward his beat-up 2008 Ford F150 parked at the end of the block. He opens the passenger door for her, waits until she’s settled in the seat before he slams it shut, walks around to the driver’s side, and turns the key in the ignition, the radio flipping to a Johnny Cash track he hasn’t heard in years.
