Roy Pritchard, 62, retired high school shop teacher, swiped sweat off his forehead with the back of a calloused hand, a splinter catching on the fine hair of his wrist. He’d manned the woodworking program’s booth at the small Ohio town’s annual summer street fair for four hours, selling student-made birdhouses and carved cutting boards to fund new lathes for the community center shop. The air reeked of fried Oreos and charcoal from the adjacent rib stand, a local cover band cranking out a wobbly rendition of “Free Fallin’” that made him smile despite the 92-degree heat. His 10-year-old golden retriever Mabel lay splayed under the folding table, paws out, panting so loud he could hear her over the crowd noise.
A shadow fell across the stack of maple cutting boards, and his throat went dry. Maren Hale, 58, owner of the town’s only independent bookstore, leaned into the booth, silver streaks catching in her auburn braid. She had a smudge of royal blue ink on her left wrist, the same one he’d stared at a dozen times over six months dropping off free kids’ books for her porch library. She wore a faded John Prine tee cut off at the elbows, frayed denim shorts, and scuffed work boots caked with mud from the community garden she tended on weekends. Half-eaten cotton candy dangled from her hand, pink sugar dusted on her lower lip.
He’d avoided her for three months, ever since a rainy Tuesday when he’d stayed late helping her move donated poetry collections, their shoulders pressing together reaching for the same box of Mary Oliver works. He’d felt a jolt up his spine he hadn’t known since first kissing his late wife Linda at 19, and guilt hit so hard he’d mumbled an excuse and left before he could say thank you. He’d told himself any flicker of attraction was a betrayal, that moving on even a little after Linda’s 2020 death from ovarian cancer made him a bad husband, that the warm flutter he got seeing her name on volunteer emails was something to be ashamed of.
“Hey, shop teacher,” she said, grinning, her voice raspy as always after three hours reading to first graders at the local elementary. She leaned in further, one knee bumping his where he stood behind the table, and he could smell lavender soap and the sweet, sticky tang of cotton candy. “Been trying to catch you for weeks. You keep ducking out of the shop before I get there to drop off those old woodworking manuals I found in a donation box.”
He shifted his weight, ears going pink, and reached for the closest cutting board to occupy his hands, their fingers brushing when she reached for the same one. The skin on the back of her hand was soft, dotted with freckles, and he pulled back like he’d touched a hot nail. “Don’t need manuals,” he mumbled, staring at the maple grain instead of her face. “Been doing this 40 years.”
She laughed, warm, and leaned her hip against the table edge, close enough he could feel heat radiating off her arm through his thin work shirt. “I know why you’re avoiding me, Roy,” she said, soft enough only he could hear over the crowd. “Linda was my friend, you know. She came into my store every Saturday for 12 years, buying those terrible hardboiled detective novels she loved. Six months before she died, she told me if I ever saw you moping around acting like you had to spend the rest of your life alone, I had permission to kick your ass.”
He froze, head snapping up, finally meeting her hazel, green-flecked eyes. She looked at him like she knew exactly how much he’d been hurting, how scared he was to stop grieving long enough to feel something good again. The guilt sitting heavy in his chest for three months loosened, just a little, and he huffed a shocked laugh. “She said that?”
“Word for word,” she said, reaching across the table to brush his knuckle gently, light enough he could pull away if he wanted. He didn’t. “Said you were the most stubborn man she ever met, and you’d need a push to stop being stupid.”
He stared at her for a long second, crowd noise fading to background hum, the splinter in his wrist, sun on his neck, soft press of her fingers all feeling sharper, more real than anything he’d felt in two years. He picked up the maple cutting board they’d both reached for, carved with tiny sunflowers around the edge, and held it out. “For free,” he said, smiling the first real, unforced smile he’d given anyone that wasn’t Mabel or his granddaughter in months. “Down payment on that peach pie the diner started making last week. You free tomorrow morning?”
Her grin widened, and she took the board, their fingers brushing again. “9 o’clock. Don’t be late. I hate eating pie alone.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and he let himself think about leaning in to wipe the pink sugar off her lip, no guilt, no shame, just quiet excitement curling in his chest.
She waved and turned to walk off, yelling over her shoulder she’d bring the manuals to the diner, and he leaned against the table, watching her go, the empty spot where the cutting board sat feeling like a weight he didn’t know he carried had lifted. Mabel thumped her tail under the table, and he bent to scratch her ears, pulling his phone out to set an 8:45 a.m. reminder for the next day.
