Elroy Voss, 62, had spent the last 11 years avoiding every neighborhood block party within a 10-mile radius of his Asheville property. A retired high school shop teacher turned vintage camper restorer, he’d built his routine around the hum of his sanders, the sharp tang of aluminum polish, and the quiet of his pole barn, far away from the nosy questions of neighbors who still whispered about the day his wife left him for a smooth-talking life insurance salesman. His only real flaw was that he held grudges like they were vintage tools he’d never part with—especially when it came to his ex-wife’s entire extended family, who he’d assumed all bought into her lies about him being a lazy, detached drunk. The only reason he’d showed up to this July party at all was his old welding buddy Jimmie had begged him, promising a batch of smoked brisket so good it’d make him forget every bad memory he had of neighborhood gatherings.
He’d propped himself against the gnarled trunk of an oak at the edge of the party, half-empty IPA in hand, planning to sneak out the second Jimmie was distracted, when she walked over. He recognized her immediately, from the faded family photos his ex used to tape to their fridge: Marnie, her younger cousin, 58, retired travel nurse who’d moved into the house three lots over three months prior. He’d seen her unloading moving boxes once, had ducked behind his fence before she could spot him, convinced she’d start spitting the same insults his ex had levelled at him for the last decade. She was holding a paper plate stacked high with brisket, the grease bleeding through the edge, and she stopped close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and cedar smoke off the worn flannel she had tied around her waist, even over the smell of grilled hot dogs and citronella candles.
“Figured you’d be hiding over here,” she said, holding the plate out to him. Her elbow brushed his forearm when she moved, warm through the thin fabric of his work shirt, and he froze for half a second before he took a bite. It was as good as Jimmie had promised, salty and smoky, the fat melting on his tongue. She laughed when he didn’t say anything, leaning against the tree next to him, her shoulder a bare inch from his. She kept eye contact steady, no awkward darting away, no polite small talk about the weather, just asked him about the dented 1972 Airstream he’d towed back to his property two weeks prior. He found himself talking for 10 minutes straight, explaining the water damage in the back, the custom walnut paneling he was planning to install, and he didn’t even notice when he finished his beer and she handed him a fresh one she’d grabbed from the cooler.
The conflict twisted tight in his chest the whole time, half disgust at the idea he was even talking to someone related to his ex, half sharp, unfamiliar desire curling low in his gut, the kind he hadn’t felt since he was in his 20s. He kept waiting for her to bring up his ex, to make a snide comment about how he’d driven her away, but she never did. She told him about working ER shifts during the height of COVID, about driving cross country alone after she retired, about how she’d bought a beat-up old 1968 Scotty camper that was sitting in her driveway, rotting, because she didn’t know the first thing about body work. When a group of kids ran past, yelling and waving glow sticks, she stepped closer to him to get out of the way, her hand brushing his, and he didn’t pull away. Her nails were chipped with dark blue polish, no rings, no fancy jewelry, her hands calloused the same way his were, from hauling gear and fixing things herself.
He was still hesitating, half ready to make an excuse to leave, when she asked if he wanted to walk back to his place so she could see the Airstream up close. He nodded before he could talk himself out of it, and they cut through the tree line between the neighborhood and his property, the grass crunching under their boots, fireflies blinking in the dark between the trees. Halfway down the path, she stopped suddenly, reaching up to brush a tick off the collar of his shirt, her fingers grazing the stubble on his jaw. He held his breath, and she smiled, soft, not teasing. “I know you probably think I hate you,” she said, quiet, so only he could hear. “My cousin lied about all of it, you know. I knew she was cheating on you with that insurance guy two years before she left. She always did like to play the victim.”
The tight knot in his chest loosened all at once, like a rusted bolt finally giving way after years of being stuck. He didn’t say anything, just kept walking, leading her to the pole barn, flipping on the string lights strung along the rafters when they got inside. The Airstream glowed under the warm light, the polished aluminum reflecting the tiny bulbs like scattered stars. She walked over to it, running her hand along the curved side, and he could see the excitement in her face, the same look he got when he found a rare part at a swap meet. She turned to him, her eyes bright, and said she’d been looking for someone to help her fix up her Scotty, that she wanted to take it out to Yellowstone next fall, if he wanted to come along.
He stepped closer, reaching for her hand, his calloused, polish-stained fingers wrapping around hers, rough against her skin. He didn’t have to think about it, didn’t have to talk himself out of it, didn’t have to worry about what anyone would say. She laced her fingers through his, and for the first time in 11 years, he didn’t feel the urge to make an excuse to leave.
