Elias Voss, 62, spent 31 years as an air traffic controller at Dayton International before he retired, and these days he fixes vintage neon signs for small businesses across western Ohio, his work boots perpetually smudged with solder and glass dust. His wife of 32 years passed eight years prior, and he’s avoided any sort of social event that didn’t involve picking up supplies or dropping off a finished sign since, convinced even a casual conversation with a woman was a betrayal of the life they built. He’d driven an hour to the small craft beer festival outside Yellow Springs that Saturday only to drop off the “HOP HAVEN” neon he’d spent three weeks building for the host brewery, fully planning to leave before the first cover band finished their set.
The crowd was thick enough that he almost didn’t see her until he bumped into her shoulder, the crate of extra neon tubing he was carrying knocking a half-empty hard seltzer can in her hand sloshing over the edge. He grabbed her elbow to steady her before she could drop the plate of smoked brisket she held in the other, his calloused, glass-scratched fingers brushing the soft, worn flannel of her shirt, and when he looked up, he recognized her immediately. Maren Hale, 58, ex-wife of his old air traffic control coworker Rick, the woman he’d spent almost two decades feeling guilty for noticing, even when everyone in the office knew Rick cheated on her twice and screamed at her in the parking lot after the 2017 holiday party.
The air smelled like roasted hops and charcoal and the sweet, sharp tang of apple cider donuts, and 90s Alan Jackson hummed low from the festival speakers as she brushed cider off her jeans and grinned at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners, flecked with gold in the late September sun. She said she’d seen his name on the sign out front, had wondered if he’d be the one dropping it off. He fumbled for a napkin to hand her, his knuckles brushing her wrist when he passed it over, and his chest went tight, half old loyalty-induced guilt, half a jolt of something he hadn’t felt in almost a decade.
He should have left. He told himself that a dozen times in the next 45 minutes, sitting across from her at a splintered picnic table, listening to her laugh as she told him she left Rick 12 years ago, now runs a horse rescue 20 minutes outside town, has three rescue dogs of her own that hate thunder and love stealing leftover pizza off the counter. She leaned over once to grab a fry off his plate, her shoulder pressing firm against his, her silver-streaked auburn hair brushing his jaw, and it smelled like lavender and the cedar shampoo his wife used to use, and the guilt faded just a little, replaced by a warm, slow buzz that had nothing to do with the IPA he’d let her press into his hand.
When she asked if he wanted to walk the short trail down to the Little Miami River that ran behind the brewery, away from the crowd, he said yes before he could overthink it. The leaves crunched under their boots as they walked, the noise of the festival fading behind them, and when they reached the wooden overlook above the river, she turned to face him, her hands tucked in her jacket pockets, and said she’d always thought he was the only decent guy in that whole control tower crew, had wondered for years if he’d ever see her as more than Rick’s ex.
He kissed her then, slow, the cold autumn wind stinging his cheeks, her hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck, soft and warm, and he didn’t feel guilty, not even for a second. They stayed there for 20 minutes, talking about his neon signs, about her horses, about the way the leaves were turning bright red along the river banks, before they turned to walk back.
He told her he was restoring a 1950s A&W root beer stand sign for a customer out in Springfield, had it set up in his garage to test the tubing, asked if she wanted to come see it next weekend, bring her dogs if she wanted. She said yes, grinning, and slipped her hand into his as they rounded the corner back to the beer tents, and he didn’t let go.
