Rico Marquez, 51, makes his living restoring vintage arcade machines out of a converted garage on the edge of a tiny Oregon coast town. For six years, ever since his wife died after a brutal 18-month battle with ovarian cancer, he’s barely left the property except for supply runs and drop-offs, avoiding local events like the plague. His only real friend, the owner of the town’s only dive bar, shoves a cold IPA in his hand at 4 PM on a Saturday, bullies him into coming to the annual summer block party, says he’s turning into a hermit who reeks of solder and old circuit boards.
His calloused, solder-stained hand reaches for a pale ale at the exact same time a smaller hand, nails chipped deep crimson, a tiny silver cat ring wrapped around its index finger, bumps his knuckles. He yanks back like he touched a live wire, mumbles an apology. The woman attached to the hand laughs, low and warm, no trace of awkwardness. “Don’t stress it. I was actually reaching for the seltzer right behind it anyway.”
He recognizes her immediately. Lila, the new county librarian, who moved to town three months prior, fresh off a divorce from a prominent Portland personal injury lawyer. The local gossip mill has been churning nonstop about her, old biddies at the diner calling her a homewrecker with zero proof, warning their sons and husbands to stay away. Rico’s always hated small town gossip, but he’s also avoided drawing any attention to himself for half a decade, so his first instinct is to mumble another apology and bolt.
She doesn’t let him. She leans against the side of the ice tub, one bare foot propped on a cinder block (her sandals are tucked under her arm, strap snapped clean through), her shoulder tilted toward him, eyes crinkling at the corners when she spots the smudge of silver solder on his jaw. “You fix things for a living?”
He nods, tells her about the arcade shop, and she lights up, says she’s been begging the library board for budget to buy a working Donkey Kong machine for the teen game night, that the kids are sick of only having board games and a beat up Wii. The conversation flows easier than any he’s had in years, no awkward pauses, no prying questions about his past, no pitying looks when he mentions his wife in passing. He doesn’t even notice the clouds rolling in until fat, warm summer raindrops start splattering on the gravel at his feet.
Everyone scrambles for cover, kids screaming, the band cutting off mid-chorus. She grabs his wrist, her palm warm against the thin, pale scar he has there from a soldering iron accident two years back, and yanks him under the narrow awning of the old feed store two steps away. The space is so tight their chests are almost pressed together, rain dripping off the edge of the awning onto the toes of his boots. Her hair is sticking to the side of her neck, she smells like coconut shampoo and lime seltzer, and when she tilts her chin up to look at him, her mouth parted just a little, he doesn’t overthink it. He leans down and kisses her, soft at first, then firmer when she kisses him back, her fingers curling into the front of his faded Carhartt shirt. For the first time in six years, there’s no heavy knot of guilt in his chest for wanting something that’s just for him.
The rain stops as fast as it started, a faint rainbow curving over the ocean three blocks away. She pulls back, grinning, swiping a smudge of solder off her own cheek that she picked up from pressing against his jaw. “So you’ll bring that Donkey Kong by the library next Wednesday? The kids will lose their minds.” He nods, still a little dazed, watching her slip her broken sandals back on and wave before jogging over to a group of teens yelling her name from the library booth. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, deletes the 8 PM calendar reminder he set to re-solder a Pac-Man control board he’s been putting off for weeks, and texts his friend he won’t be coming over to watch the fight that night. He’s got work to do.
