Elias Voss, 52, makes his living restoring vintage snowmobiles out of a cinder block shop behind his house in northern Minnesota, a trade he fell into after he lost his college wrestling scholarship his senior year of high school. He’s got a flaw he’s never bothered to fix: he holds grudges like they’re rare engine parts he refuses to sell, even when they sit on his shelf collecting dust, useless for decades. It’s the annual fall walleye fry hosted by the local fire department, the only community event he bothers showing up to these days, four years after his wife Lois died of breast cancer. He’s leaning against the dented side of his 1998 Ford F-150, a half-empty can of Hamm’s in one hand, a half-eaten walleye sandwich in the other, watching a group of teens race beat-up go-karts in the empty field next to the community center. For 30 years, he’s carried a chip on his shoulder about Maren Hale, his high school girlfriend’s best friend, who he swore ratted him out for sneaking a case of beer to the senior bonfire, getting him suspended three days before the state tournament, costing him that scholarship.
He spots her before she spots him. She’s wearing a faded green flannel that hangs past her hips, scuffed work boots caked in mud from walking the trail behind her mom’s house, thin silver hoop earrings that catch the glow of the string lights strung between the oak trees. He heard through the town gossip mill she moved back to town six months prior, divorced from the real estate guy she married in Phoenix right after graduation, now working as a freelance landscape designer for the lake cabins an hour north. She walks over, stops about a foot away, close enough that he can smell pine shampoo under the fried fish and wood smoke hanging in the crisp September air, holds up her own can of Hamm’s in a silent toast. He tenses, half ready to walk away, but she smirks, says she’s got an apology 30 years overdue.
He blinks, doesn’t say anything at first, so she explains. It wasn’t her that told the principal about the beer. It was Jake Miller, his backup on the wrestling team, who’d been bitter that Elias got the 160-pound varsity spot, saw him carrying the case into the woods, ran and ratted him out. She only found out a week prior, when Jake was in town for his mom’s funeral, got sloppy drunk at the downtown bar and spilled the whole thing. She felt terrible, knew Elias had blamed her all these years, knew he’d never let her get close enough to explain before. He feels his chest go tight, all that hot, heavy anger he’s carried for three decades suddenly deflating, leaving a weird, hollow warmth in its place. He laughs, rough and surprised, says he can’t believe he wasted all that time mad at the wrong person.
They lean against the truck together, talking, the noise of the fish fry fading into background static. She teases him about the rat-tail mullet he wore senior year, says all the girls used to make fun of it but secretly thought it was kind of hot. He teases her about the neon pink leg warmers she wore to every basketball game, says he used to make fun of them but secretly stared at her legs the whole time. When they both reach for the same paper bag of tartar sauce sitting on the truck’s running board, their hands brush—calloused from her work planting trees and moving stone, calloused from his work wrenching on engine blocks—and neither of them pulls away for a full three seconds. A gust of cold wind blows, she shivers, shifts a little closer so their shoulders are pressed together, and he can feel the heat of her through both their flannels. When a group of rowdy preteens runs past yelling, she leans in to whisper that kids these days don’t know how to sneak out without getting caught, her breath warm against the shell of his ear, and he gets a whiff of the cherry seltzer she drank earlier, sweet and sharp.
He tells her about the 1978 Ski-Doo Everest he just finished restoring, the one he’s been working on for two years, plans to take it up to the Boundary Waters in January for a week of ice fishing and solo riding. She says she’s never been snowmobiling, always wanted to try, but her ex-husband thought it was “too redneck” and refused to let her. He raises an eyebrow, asks her if she’s got plans tomorrow, says he can take her out to the old logging trails behind his shop, the early snow’s not deep yet but there’s enough for a test ride, he’s got an extra helmet that’ll fit her. She grins, nods, says she’d like that a lot.
When the fish fry wraps up an hour later, he offers her a ride back to her mom’s place. She climbs into the passenger seat of his truck, turns the radio dial to the old country station, rests her hand on the center console an inch away from his. He shifts his hand over, lets their pinkies brush, not pushing, not rushing, just savoring the quiet, warm buzz of something new he never thought he’d get to feel again. He turns onto the dirt road leading to her mom’s place, the streetlights blurring gold against the dark pine trees lining the shoulder.
