Manny Rios, 58, spent 31 years restoring vintage typewriters for private collectors before he retired to a weather-beaten cottage on Oregon’s central coast. His biggest flaw, the one his late mother used to nag him about until the day she died, was that he’d rather hole up in his workshop sanding down a 1950s Royal’s rusted carriage than make small talk with anyone who didn’t care about key tension or ribbon spool sizes. He’d skipped every local block party for the six years he’d lived in town, only showing up this July because his 10-year-old next door neighbor had begged him to try her lavender lemonade stand, promised she’d donate 20% of her profits to the local sea turtle rescue.
He was leaning against a splintered wooden fence by the fire department beer garden, nursing a lukewarm lager and counting down the minutes until he could slip back home, when a woman knocked her elbow hard into his ribs reaching for a stack of napkins on the fence post beside him. “Shit, sorry,” she said, her voice warm and rough around the edges, like she spent half her days yelling over wind or loud music. Her forearm brushed his as she pulled back, warm from the summer sun, a tiny faded bee tattoo peeking out from the cuff of her rolled linen shirt. Manny used to keep two hives in his backyard before a bear tore through them three years prior, so his eyes snagged on the ink immediately.
They talked for 20 minutes, leaning in closer every time a group of screaming kids ran past, their shoulders brushing so often Manny stopped pretending it was an accident. He told her about the typewriter restoration business, the time he fixed a 1947 Underwood that had belonged to a WWII war correspondent, the stacks of half-finished short stories he typed out on his own personal Royal every night before bed. She told him she was the new Methodist pastor in town, had moved three weeks prior after her husband died of pancreatic cancer four years before, that she restored old barn wood furniture in her garage on weekends.
The information landed like a light punch to the gut. Manny hadn’t stepped foot in a church since his mom’s funeral, had spent decades writing off all religious leaders as holier-than-thou grifters who cared more about donation plates than people. The logical part of his brain screamed to make an excuse, leave, go home to his quiet workshop and forget he’d ever talked to her. The rest of him, the part that had been dormant since his ex wife left him for a real estate agent in Portland eight years prior, was hooked. He noticed she bit the corner of her lower lip when he told her he still missed his bees, that she laughed so hard at his story about the bear tearing up his hives she snort-laughed, had to cover her mouth with her hand to hide it.
The band switched to a slow, wobbly cover of Stand By Me, couples drifting into the middle of the blocked-off street to sway back and forth in the golden glow of the string lights strung between the storefronts. She tilted her head, her hair falling in a wisp over her forehead, and held her hand out to him. “I haven’t danced since my wedding,” she said, like she was admitting a secret. Manny told her he hadn’t either, his palms sweating so bad he wiped them on his jeans twice before he took her hand.
Her palm was calloused, rough from sanding barn wood, when she laced her fingers through his. They swayed off to the side of the crowd, far enough away no one they knew would stare, her free hand resting light on his shoulder, his hand on her waist just above the band of her jeans. For two seconds, she rested her head against his chest, her hair brushing the underside of his jaw, and he could smell lavender shampoo over the brat smoke and beer fumes. “You have a steady heartbeat,” she said when she pulled back, her face so close he could count the freckles across her nose.
The fire chief got on the loudspeaker a minute later, announced the fireworks show was starting in 10 minutes down on the public beach. She didn’t let go of his hand when they stopped dancing, just tugged him a little toward the end of the street, where the sidewalk sloped down to the sand. “I have a blanket folded in the back of my truck,” she said, her thumb brushing the back of his knuckle, soft enough he almost didn’t feel it. Manny didn’t hesitate, didn’t make an excuse about needing to get home to feed his cat or finish sanding a typewriter part, the way he’d done with every other invite he’d gotten in six years. He squeezed her hand, followed her past the lemonade stand where his neighbor’s kid waved wildly at him, the fog rolling in off the ocean turning the streetlights soft and golden around them.
