Roland Voss, 62, retired forensic entomologist, has spent the eight years since his wife died avoiding unplanned social interaction. His career spent picking apart tiny, messy details of crime scenes left him with a nearly intolerable pet peeve: disorder, of any kind, from crumpled receipts on a counter to awkward small talk with strangers. He drives to the coastal Oregon town’s annual Bug & Brew fundraiser only to drop off a framed collection of native ground beetles he mounted for the silent auction, plans to be back in his quiet cottage in 10 minutes flat. The beer garden reeks of citronella, fried cheese curds, and wet hop ale, kids scream as they chase fireflies around the perimeter of splintered picnic tables, and he’s already mentally cataloging the 17 smudges on the folding table in front of him when a gust of wind yanks a stack of bid sheets off the surface and slaps one against his work boot.
She bends to grab it before he can, her sun-warmed shoulder brushing the bare skin of his forearm where his flannel sleeve is rolled up. He catches a whiff of jasmine hand lotion and the faint, dusty tang of old paper before she straightens, holds eye contact for three full beats longer than polite, and grins when she spots his name scrawled on the donation tag tied to the beetle frame. Marisol Ruiz, 58, owner of the town’s only used bookstore, ex-wife of his only local friend, the bait shop owner who’d complained for six months straight after their split that she was “too stubborn to put up with.” Roland had made a point to avoid her for two years, out of some misplaced loyalty to a guy who’d admitted two months prior he’d cheated on her twice before she filed for divorce.
She doesn’t let him leave. Leans against the table next to him, close enough that her hip presses against his when a group of teens cuts past and jostles the edge, asks if he’s the same Roland Voss who posted the microscope repair ad on the community board at the grocery store. Her nails are chipped with indigo ink, her dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a messy braid, and she laughs when he admits he’s only at the event because the high school science teacher begged him to donate something. He’d planned to mumble an excuse, head home to his half-finished 1968 Bausch & Lomb rebuild, but when she mentions her dad left her a 1972 Zeiss stereo microscope that’s been jammed for a decade, he says he can take a look at it tomorrow afternoon before he can think better of it.
The back room of her bookstore smells like leather bindings, cold brew coffee, and the lavender candle she has burning on the workbench when he shows up the next day, a canvas bag of tiny screwdrivers and magnifying glasses slung over his shoulder. She brings him a glass of sweet iced tea while he works, leans over his shoulder every few minutes to watch him adjust the microscope’s tiny internal gears, her breath warm against the side of his neck. He’s hyper-aware of every movement she makes: the way her hand brushes his when she passes him a flathead screwdriver smaller than his pinky nail, the way she hums old Patsy Cline under her breath while she sorts through a box of 1970s poetry books stacked in the corner, the little crinkle at the corner of her eye when he makes a dumb joke about how insect evidence is the only witness that never lies.
He’s just tightened the last screw, tested the focus knob to make sure it glides smooth without catching, when he turns to tell her it’s fixed and their faces are three inches apart. He can see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, the faint smudge of ink on her left cheek, and for half a second he tenses, ready to pull back, to mumble an apology and run, because that stupid, outdated loyalty to his ex-friend nags at the back of his head. Then she kisses him, soft at first, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, and every last bit of resistance melts. He hasn’t kissed anyone since his wife died, hasn’t wanted to, and the warmth of it spreads from his chest down to his fingertips, so bright it makes the years of lonely, quiet evenings in his cottage feel like a distant, unimportant memory.
She pulls back first, grinning when she notices he’s blushing high on his cheekbones, and offers him a glass of the small-batch bourbon she keeps stashed behind the register for favorite regulars. He sits on the edge of her workbench, takes a sip, and listens while she tells him she’s had a crush on him since he moved to town, used to walk her rescue hound an hour earlier every morning just so she’d pass him on the beach when he was walking his golden retriever. He laughs, admits he’d noticed her too, had spent three months debating if he should stop by the bookstore to say hi before he chickened out every time. He picks up the newly repaired Zeiss, twists the focus knob until the freckle just above her left collarbone comes into sharp, perfect view, and slides his free hand across the workbench to lace his fingers through hers.
