Rudy Galvan, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, had spent the past 8 years living by a very short list of unbreakable rules. No dating, no skipping church on Sundays, no engaging with anyone the town’s gossips had marked as “trouble.” He’d built most of the furniture in his cedar cabin outside Ashland by hand, sanded every edge until it was smooth enough for a toddler to run their hands over, and he’d curated his public persona the same way: no rough spots, no gaps, nothing for anyone to whisper about. He was at the annual fall harvest fair that crisp October afternoon to drop off a hand-carved walnut cutting board for the community center silent auction, the grain polished so deep it glowed like wet earth, when the collision happened.
She was coming around the corner of the spiced cider tent, full cup in one hand, stack of paper tasting menus in the other, and he didn’t see her until their shoulders knocked hard enough to send a splash of cider running down the front of his navy flannel shirt. Her name was Maeve Carter, 41, ran the organic cider press on the edge of town, and Rudy had avoided her for three straight years, ever since the gossip mill caught fire that she’d left her husband in Portland for a female bike mechanic. He’d told himself it was because he didn’t want to get dragged into drama, but the truth was he’d caught himself staring at her across the tool library more than once, at the way her forearms flexed when she hauled a table saw across the shop floor, at the smattering of freckles across her nose that only showed up in the summer.
She swore under her breath, stepped so close he could smell cinnamon and crushed apple on her breath, and dabbed at the wet spot on his shirt with a crumpled paper napkin. Her knuckles brushed his wrist through the flannel, and he flinched like he’d touched a live wire. “Sorry about that,” she said, holding his eye contact longer than most people did, her dark brown eyes crinkling at the corners like she knew exactly how flustered he was. “That’s half my good spiced batch wasted on your very nice shirt. Least I can do is buy you a replacement cup.”
He glanced past her, caught three of the ladies from his church’s bake sale table staring right at them, their hands frozen mid-pinch of cookie dough. His first instinct was to mumble that it was fine, he had to get going, avoid the gossip before it even started. But then she shifted her weight, and her arm brushed his again, and he noticed the tiny scar on her left thumb from a cider press accident she’d mentioned at a town hall meeting six months prior, a detail he’d stored away for no reason he’d wanted to admit to himself. The bluegrass band two blocks over struck up a slow, twangy cover of a Johnny Cash song he’d danced to with his wife at their wedding, and something in his chest loosened.
“I’d like that,” he said, and he could almost hear the church ladies’ pearls clutching across the fairground. She grinned, handed him a cup of cider, their fingers brushing when he took it, and he felt the rough callus on the pad of her thumb press into his skin. “I know everyone talks about me,” she said, leaning against the tent pole next to him, their shoulders pressed together tight enough that he could feel the warmth of her through his shirt. “Figured you were too much of a straight-laced good boy to be seen talking to the town’s resident bisexual menace.” He laughed, a loud, rough sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in years. “They talk about me too, y’know,” he said. “Said I’d never date again after my wife died, that I’m gonna turn into a hermit in that cabin of mine. I’ve been building a small backyard cider press the past month. Been trying to work up the nerve to ask you to come help me calibrate it. Next weekend, if you’re free.”
She tapped her cup against his, the plastic clinking soft over the sound of the band. “I’m free,” she said, taking a slow sip of cider, her eyes still locked on his. He glanced back over at the church ladies, who were openly gawking now, and winked. One of them dropped her cookie sheet. He took a long drink of the spiced cider, the warmth spreading from his throat down to his toes, and didn’t look away when she laced her fingers through his for half a second, just long enough for him to feel how soft her palm was against his calloused woodworking hand. The sun dipped below the oak trees lining the street, painting the sky pink and orange, and for the first time in 8 years, Rudy didn’t care if anyone had anything to say about it.
