Elwood “Woody” Rainer, 61, had only dragged himself to the coastal Oregon town’s annual summer food truck festival for one reason: his old park service buddy swore the pop-up collectibles stall had the 1968 Penn Spinfisher side plate he’d been hunting for 18 months. He’d retired from the state park rangers three years prior, made his full-time gig restoring pre-1970 saltwater fishing reels out of his garage, and avoided all town events like they carried a contagious strain of pity. Since his wife Lois died of ovarian cancer eight years back, every neighbor and church lady had taken it upon themselves to pat his arm and ask if he was “keeping busy,” like he was a lost golden retriever who needed a home. He’d perfected the gruff half-smile and quick exit, and he planned to use it as soon as he had the part in hand.
The stall was crammed between a catfish vendor and a booth selling hand-knit wool hats, and the side plate was sitting on the edge of a folding table, dusty and perfectly intact. He reached for it at the exact same time another hand did, calloused in a different way, nails painted a soft seafoam green, a tiny seahorse tattoo curling around her wrist. He recognized her immediately: Marnie Hale, 58, the new town librarian, the woman every matchmaker in a 10 mile radius had been trying to set him up with for six months. He’d dodged her every time, convinced any date set up by a well-meaning stranger would feel like a charity case, like he was checking a box to make everyone else stop worrying about him. He pulled his hand back fast, mumbled an apology, and turned to leave before she could say hello.
“Wait,” she said, and her voice was lower than he expected, rough like she spent half her day reading out loud to kids, which he guessed she did. She picked up the side plate and held it out to him, her other hand balancing a paper plate of fried oreos dusted with powdered sugar. “I was only grabbing this for you, anyway. I heard the reel restorer in town has been looking for one for ages. My dad had that exact reel, I’d recognize that chipped paint anywhere.”
He blinked, taken off guard. He’d forgotten he’d set up a display of vintage outdoor gear at the library two months prior, pro bono, for the kids’ summer reading program. He’d dropped the bins off at 7 a.m. when the building was empty, specifically so he wouldn’t run into anyone, and he hadn’t realized she’d even noticed who he was. He took the plate from her, his fingers brushing hers for half a second, and the callus on the pad of her thumb caught on the scar across his left knuckle, the one he’d gotten when a reel spring snapped when he was 42, fixing Lois’s pole on their 20th anniversary.
The crowd shifted behind them, a group of teens running past with dripping snow cones, and she stepped closer to him to avoid getting slush on her linen shirt, her shoulder pressing to his chest for a split second. He smelled coconut sunscreen and fried dough and the faint, sharp scent of peppermint gum on her breath, and for a second he froze, convinced he was doing something wrong, like he was betraying Lois by even noticing how warm she was, how the silver streaks in her auburn hair caught the sun when she tilted her head to laugh at the kid who’d just tripped over a curb.
He’d spent eight years telling himself he was done with that part of his life, that dating was for people who hadn’t loved someone so hard it hurt to breathe when they were gone. He’d turned down every invitation, spent most nights in his garage working on reels, listening to old Johnny Cash records, only talking to people when they dropped off a reel for repair or called to ask about parts. But Marnie didn’t pat his arm or ask if he was keeping busy. She asked him about the display, about the 1950s reel he’d brought that had belonged to his grandfather, about whether he ever taught kids how to fix their own poles.
They ended up sitting on a weathered cedar picnic bench by the water, splitting an order of fried catfish and a glass of sweet tea, while a cover band played Jimmy Buffett off in the distance. She told him she’d been a widow for 10 years, her husband had been a commercial fisherman who’d died in a storm off the coast of Washington, and she hated the town’s matchmaking attempts just as much as he did. She’d thought he was a total grump until she saw him stop outside the library two weeks prior, help a 7-year-old kid fix his broken fishing pole with a paperclip and a rubber band, and give the kid a spare hook he had in his pocket. He told her he’d thought she was too put-together, too nice, for someone who spent most of his days covered in grease and old metal dust, until he saw her trip over a curb outside the grocery store last month, drop a whole bag of library books, and start laughing so hard she snort-laughed, right there in the parking lot.
The sun started to dip low over the ocean, painting the sky pink and orange, and a breeze came off the water, carrying the briny smell of seaweed and salt. She tucked a strand of hair that had come loose from her braid behind her ear, and her knuckle brushed the edge of his jaw, soft and warm. He didn’t flinch. He reached over, plucked a piece of sea grass that had stuck to the shoulder of her sweater, and let his fingers linger on the fabric for a second, just long enough to feel the soft weave of the linen under his touch. She didn’t pull away.
He walked her to her beat-up Subaru station wagon when she said she had to head home, the reel part tucked safely in his jacket pocket. She handed him a crumpled napkin she’d scribbled her cell number on, along with the date of the library’s next adult hobby night, and told him he could pay her back for the side plate by bringing a few reels to show off. He leaned in to hug her goodbye, the kind of polite, quick hug he gave old park service buddies, but she tilted her head up at the last second, and her lips brushed the corner of his mouth, sweet from the fried oreos and the peppermint gum she’d been chewing. He froze for half a second, then rested his hand on the small of her back, just for a second, before she pulled away.
She waved as she backed out of the parking spot, and he stood there long after her taillights had disappeared around the bend, holding the napkin in one hand, the cold metal of the reel part digging into his palm through his jacket pocket. For the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel the urge to rush straight home to his quiet garage, to put on a Johnny Cash record and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. He tucks the napkin into the inner pocket of his faded park service hoodie, already mentally rearranging his schedule next week to make the hobby night.
