Elias Voss is 53, runs a vintage motorcycle restoration shop out of a converted 1950s garage in east Portland, and hasn’t willingly attended a neighborhood community event since his ex-wife dragged him to the 2017 block party and announced she was leaving him for a 28-year-old spin instructor before the cornhole tournament even started. His biggest flaw, per his 22-year-old daughter Lila, is that he’d rather sand rust off a 1968 Triumph for 12 hours straight than make small talk with anyone who isn’t his regular poker crew or a customer who knows the difference between a two-stroke and a four-stroke engine. He’d shown up to the annual fall chili cookoff only because his shop assistant had threatened to hide all his specialty socket sets if he spent another Saturday night alone eating frozen pizza and watching old football reruns.
He’s leaning against a splintered oak picnic table sipping a lukewarm Pacifico, grease still crusted under the edges of his fingernails from tuning a 1972 Honda CB750 that morning, when he spots her. Clara Marlow, 49, just finalized her divorce from Jake Carter, Elias’s high school football teammate and former business partner who’d stiffed him on $12,000 worth of parts for a custom build back in 2020. Everyone in the neighborhood still sides with Jake, mostly because he’s a local realtor who hosts annual Super Bowl parties and donates to the little league team, so Elias has avoided her like the plague since the separation was announced six months prior.
She’s holding a half-empty cup of sangria, laughing at something the woman next to her said, when her eyes lock with his. She doesn’t look away. He fidgets with the label on his beer bottle, heat crawling up the back of his neck, and is half considering bailing early when she walks over, boots crunching on fallen maple leaves, and slides onto the bench next to him. Their knees brush under the table, rough denim against the soft corduroy of her pants, and he catches a whiff of lavender perfume mixed with the smoky tang of chili and charcoal from the grills scattered across the park.
“Brought a pot of green chili,” she says, nodding at the crockpot sitting on the table between them, holding out a plastic spoon. Their fingers brush when he takes it, calloused mechanic’s hands against her softer, ink-stained ones—she’s the head librarian at the neighborhood branch, he remembers, spends all day marking up book spines and helping old folks navigate e-readers. “Won last year. Figured you’d skip the sweet, tomato-heavy garbage everyone else brings.”
He takes a bite. It’s good, spicy enough to make his eyes water, and he tells her so. She grins, leaning in a little so their shoulders press together, and says Jake always complained it was too hot, made her tone it down for every cookoff they went to during their 26-year marriage. He snorts, tells her Jake was always a spineless idiot who couldn’t handle anything spicier than a plain McDonald’s hamburger. She laughs so hard she snorts, clapping a hand over her mouth, and for a second he forgets why he was supposed to avoid her.
The conflict nags at him anyway, quiet and sharp in the back of his head. Jake would lose his mind if he saw them talking like this. Half the neighborhood would start spreading rumors by the end of the night. He’s half convinced he’s making a fool of himself, that he’s just starved for attention after six years of celibacy, but every time she leans in to tell him another story about Jake’s dumbest decisions—like the time he tried to build a backyard fire pit with cinder blocks that exploded and singed off half his eyebrow—he forgets to overthink it. She asks about the CB750 he posted on his shop’s Instagram earlier that week, says she’s been wanting to learn to ride for 20 years but Jake always told her it was too dangerous for a woman her age. He teases her that Jake never knew a damn thing about women, or motorcycles, or much of anything else, and the way she smiles at him makes his chest feel tight, like he’s 17 again and talking to a girl he’s had a crush on for months.
The sun dips below the tree line, and a light drizzle starts to fall, sending most of the crowd scrambling to pack up their coolers and crockpots. He offers to walk her to her car, parked two blocks away by the library, and they huddle under the awning of the community center when the rain picks up. Her hair is stuck a little to her forehead, cheeks pink from the cold and the sangria, and she’s twisting the strap of her bag around her finger like she’s nervous.
“I signed up for a motorcycle safety course last week,” she says, looking up at him, so close he can smell the sangria on her breath. “Was wondering if you’d give me a few practice rides before it starts. Jake would never let me near any of his bikes, but I trust you.”
She leans up before he can answer, kisses him quick at first, like she’s testing the waters, then deeper when he doesn’t pull away. His hand comes to rest on her waist, fingers brushing the soft fabric of her flannel shirt, and he can taste the chili and sangria and mint gum on her lips, all the noise of the cookoff fading into the background, all the guilt and fear and stubborn self-isolation he’s carried for years melting away like rust under a wire brush.
He pulls back after a minute, grinning, wiping a drop of rain off her cheek with his thumb. “CB750’s tuned up and ready to go Saturday morning, 9am,” he says. “Bring black coffee and the glazed donuts from the shop on 82nd. No maple, I hate maple.”
She laughs, squeezing his hand, and steps out into the rain, waving over her shoulder as she walks toward her car. He stands there for another minute, rain soaking through his flannel shirt, before pulling out his phone and texting his poker group that he’s canceling their Saturday game, no explanation needed. He shoves his phone back in his pocket, turns toward his truck, and doesn’t even glance at the group chat blowing up with half a dozen smartass questions about where he’s suddenly got to be.
