Elias Voss, 62, retired wildland fire crew supervisor, has avoided the annual Millersburg summer street fair for seven straight years. He’d rather spend the day tuning vintage chainsaws in his sawdust-caked garage than field unsolicited setups from local widows who think his scarred left forearm and tendency to stay quiet makes him “a good catch.” He’s spent the eight years since his wife left for a real estate agent in Portland closing himself off from any kind of casual connection, convinced he’s too rough around the edges, too set in his ways, to be worth anyone’s time. His 19-year-old niece dragged him out this year, though, threatening to stop dropping off fresh blackberry pie every Sunday if he didn’t man her jam booth for an hour while she ran to the port-a-potty.
He’s leaning against the side of a chili cheese fry truck, sweating through the sleeves of his faded 2018 Bend Complex crew hoodie, sipping a root beer that’s already half warm, when he spots her. Clara Marlow, 58, Jake’s widow. Jake was his crew lead for 12 years, died of a heart attack last spring while fixing a fence on his property. Elias hasn’t spoken to her since the funeral, when he mumbled a generic condolence and fled before she could invite him in for coffee. He’s carried a stupid, quiet crush on her for 14 years, ever since she showed up to a crew cookout in 2009 with a cooler of homemade lemonade and beat every guy on the shift at cornhole. The guilt of that crush, of wanting something that felt like a betrayal of the guy who once pushed him out of the path of a falling ponderosa pine, has sat heavy in his gut for over a decade.
“Thought that was you,” she says, leaning against the booth edge, close enough that he can smell the lavender hand soap she uses and the faint, sweet scent of the strawberry lemonade in the cup sitting next to her. “I’ve got a photo I’ve been meaning to drop off at your place. From the 2009 cookout. You, me, Jake, covered in barbecue sauce after we lost a bet to the rookie crew.”
She reaches into the tote bag slung over her shoulder, pulls out a crinkled 4×6 print, and holds it out. When his hand wraps around the edge of the photo, his fingers brush hers. The contact lasts half a second longer than it should, and neither of them pulls away first. The paper is rough, warm from sitting in her bag all day, and he can see the faint indent of her thumb print on the corner.
“I didn’t think you’d still have this,” he says, staring at the photo, at the younger version of himself grinning like an idiot, Jake’s arm slung over his shoulder, Clara leaning between them holding a cornhole trophy.
“Jake kept it taped to the dashboard of his work truck until the day he died,” she says, and her voice is soft, no pity in it, just quiet warmth. “He used to tease me that I kept it there because I liked looking at you more than I liked looking at him.”
Elias’s throat goes dry. He’d spent 14 years feeling guilty for a crush he thought was one-sided, for wanting something he’d convinced himself was off limits, dirty almost. He opens his mouth to say something, to apologize, to say he never meant to overstep, but she laughs, soft and low, and leans a little closer, her shoulder brushing his bicep.
“Calm down,” she says, and her knuckles brush the scar on his forearm, light, intentional, not an accident. “Jake knew. We talked about it, a few times. He said if anything ever happened to him, you were the only guy he’d trust to not be an idiot about me.”
The loudspeaker blares an announcement about the pie eating contest starting in 10 minutes, and a group of kids runs past, screaming, but Elias can barely hear them. The tight knot of guilt he’s carried for so long unravels all at once, leaving something light, giddy, almost nervous in its place. He hasn’t felt that way since he was 22, asking his first girlfriend out to a drive-in movie.
“The fair closes in an hour,” she says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her hazel eyes flecked with gold in the late afternoon sun. “There’s a taco truck a few blocks over that stays open late. If you’re not busy. We could catch up. No pressure.”
Elias nods, before he can overthink it. She smiles, and tucks the photo into the front pocket of his hoodie, her fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt over his chest for a split second. He can feel the heat of her touch through the cotton, long after she pulls her hand away.
She turns to help a little kid holding a chihuahua puppy up to pet, her flannel swishing against her jeans as she leans down, and Elias takes a sip of his root beer. It’s colder than it was a minute ago, sweeter, even though the ice melted ten minutes back.
