Elias Voss, 52, makes his living stripping rust off 1960s and 70s Japanese motorcycles, buffing chrome till it glows like liquid sunlight, and charging city guys three times what the parts cost to have a ride that turns heads on back roads. He’s stubborn to a fault, has avoided every neighborhood social event for eight years straight, ever since his ex-wife packed her designer bags and left him for a pharmaceutical sales rep who wore crisp polos and never had grease under his fingernails. The only reason he’s at the annual Maplewood block party in the first place is his 78 year old next door neighbor banged on his garage door at 8 a.m. begging him to bring his fully restored 1972 Honda CB750 for the classic vehicle display, saying the kids would lose their minds over it. He caved.
He’s leaning against the bike’s worn leather seat now, sweating through the collar of his faded Johnny Cash t-shirt, sipping a lukewarm Pabst Blue Ribbon that’s sticky with condensation around the label. The air smells like cut grass, charcoal smoke from the grill, and the sharp tang of lemonade being poured out of a big plastic cooler. He’s half paying attention to a group of pre-teen boys gawking at the bike’s custom exhaust when he spots her walking over. Clara Bennett, 48, his ex-wife’s first cousin, who moved into the blue bungalow three doors down three months prior. He’s actively avoided her since she moved in, figured she’d take her cousin’s side, judge him for the messy divorce, run her mouth to all the extended family about what a deadbeat he was.
She’s holding a chipped ceramic plate piled high with peach cobbler, her linen sundress stuck a little to her hips from the humidity, silver hoop earrings catching the golden hour light. When she stops a foot away, he smells jasmine lotion mixed with the faint sweet scent of the cobbler, and his throat goes dry for no reason he wants to admit. “I’ve been trying to catch you for weeks,” she says, holding the plate out to him. Their fingers brush when he takes it, her skin soft against his calloused, grease-stained knuckles, and he yanks his hand back like he’s been burned. He expects a snarky comment about his ex, or a passive aggressive dig at how he never waves when she drives past his garage. Instead she smirks, leaning one hip against the bike’s fender, close enough that he can feel the heat coming off her arm. “Heard you sing Cash in the garage when you think no one’s listening. You’re pretty good, for a guy who spends most of his time covered in rust dust.”
Elias blinks. He had no idea anyone could hear him through the closed garage door. He shifts his weight, their knees brushing through his worn denim and her thin dress, and he doesn’t move away this time. The hum of the party fades to background noise for a second, just the distant squeal of kids chasing each other with water guns, the crackle of the grill. “I thought you’d hate me,” he says before he can stop himself, and her smirk softens into something warmer. She shakes her head, tucking a strand of sun-bleached hair behind her ear, and her hand brushes his shoulder on the way back down. “I never liked her, for the record. Thought she was too busy chasing a perfect life she didn’t even need to notice how good she had it. I’ve lived next door to you for three months. I see how you help Mrs. Henderson carry her groceries every week. I see how you fix the kids’ bikes for free when they bring them to your garage. You’re not the guy she made you out to be.”
He’s still processing that when the volunteer fire department sets off the first round of small fireworks, the ones for the kids, bright red and green sparks bursting low over the street. The crowd oohs in unison, the boom loud enough to rattle the bike’s handlebars. Clara leans in close to his ear to talk over the noise, her breath warm against his neck, sending a shiver down his spine he hasn’t felt in almost a decade. “I brought that cobbler for you specifically,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear. “Asked Mrs. Henderson what your favorite was. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to talk to you that wasn’t me waving like an idiot from my car.” He turns his head to respond, and their faces are so close their lips almost brush, he can taste the peach iced tea she’s been drinking on her breath. He doesn’t pull away. The last of the fireworks bursts gold over the rooftops, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t feel the urge to run from something that feels too good to be true.
By the time the crowd starts to disperse, the street is strewn with crumpled paper plates and empty soda cans, kids yawning as their parents herd them to their cars. Elias offers to walk Clara home, carrying the half-eaten plate of cobbler in one hand, brushing the back of his hand against hers every few steps as they walk down the sidewalk. When they get to her porch, she takes the plate from him, their fingers lacing together for a beat before she pulls away to unlock the screen door. “You wanna come in for coffee?” she asks, leaning against the doorframe, the warm light from her front hall spilling over her shoulders. He nods, not bothering to play it cool, not bothering to make up some excuse about needing to get back to the bike or a project in the garage. He follows her through the screen door, the faint jingle of the bell above the frame mixing with the distant laugh of kids chasing fireflies down the street.
