Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, had avoided every neighborhood block party for eight years straight. The flaw he’d never bothered fixing was his stubborn refusal to court even the smallest hint of drama, a habit he’d picked up after his ex-wife left him for his childhood fishing buddy back in 2011. He’d spent the years since splitting his time between his backyard workshop, the dim dive bar three blocks from his house, and solo fishing trips out to the Columbia River, no small talk required. The only reason he was at the neighborhood Oktoberfest that crisp October Saturday was his 72-year-old neighbor, Marnie, had showed up on his porch at 9 a.m. holding a dozen homemade donuts and begging him to help haul kegs for the beer tent. The plastic cup of hazy IPA he held was cold enough to raise goosebumps on his palms, the air thick with the smell of grilled bratwurst and wood smoke curling off the food tent fire pit.
He’d planned to duck out as soon as the last keg was tapped, but he’d gotten stuck by the edge of the tent, watching a group of preteens race each other through piles of crunched orange maple leaves, their sneakers scuffing the grass, yelling loud enough to make the string lights strung between the oak trees sway a little, when she walked up. Clara Bennett, 58, widow of his former coworker Greg, the math teacher who’d shared an office wall with him for 17 years, had moved back to the neighborhood three months prior after two years in Santa Fe taking care of her ailing mother. He hadn’t spoken to her since Greg’s funeral in 2021, had always written her off as entirely off limits; even when Greg was alive he’d quietly thought she was far too sharp, far too warm, far too good for the gruff, grumpy guy who spent every lunch break ranting about school board budget cuts.
She smiled when she spotted him, lifting her own plastic cup of spiked cider in a small toast, and crossed the ten feet of grass between them in worn leather work boots, her auburn hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, flannel tied around her waist over a faded pottery studio hoodie. “Thought that was you,” she said, leaning in a little so he could hear her over the oompah band playing off to the side, her shoulder brushing his bicep lightly when she stopped next to him. She smelled like cinnamon and clove perfume, mixed with the sharp, sweet tang of hard cider on her breath, and the faint, sugary scent of the caramel apples being sold a few booths over.
He nodded, fumbling a little with his beer cup, suddenly hyper aware that he’d forgotten to trim his beard that morning, that his flannel had a smudge of oak stain on the cuff he’d never gotten out. “Heard you moved back,” he said, and immediately cringed at how stiff he sounded, like he was talking to a stranger at a hardware store instead of a woman who’d brought him lemon poppyseed muffins every year on his birthday the entire time he was going through his divorce, who’d once driven 45 minutes out of her way to bring him antibiotics when he had the flu and no one else to check on him.
She laughed, a low, warm sound that cut right through the noise of the crowd, and nudged his arm with her elbow. “You don’t have to act like we’re strangers, O’Malley. I still have that birdhouse you built me and Greg when we bought our first house. The one with the little cedar shingles? Hung it right outside my kitchen window, chickadees nest in it every spring.” She reached for a stack of paper napkins on the folding table next to them at the same time he did, their hands brushing, and he felt the rough callus on her thumb from years of throwing clay, the soft warmth of her skin against his, and he froze for half a second, like he’d touched a live wire.
His first instinct was to pull back, to make an excuse about needing to check on Marnie, to run back to his quiet house where no one could get close enough to mess up the routine he’d spent a decade building. He’d spent so long convincing himself that any romantic entanglement, any connection that wasn’t strictly casual, would end in the same messy, hurtful way his marriage had, that even the small jolt of that accidental touch felt like a threat. He told himself it was wrong, that she was Greg’s widow, that getting involved would only cause drama with all their old teacher friends, that he was too old for this kind of nonsense.
But then she didn’t pull her hand away right away, holding eye contact with him for three full beats, her smile softening a little, the corner of her mouth tugging up like she knew exactly what he was thinking. Her shoulder was still pressed against his, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt, and he could see the faint flecks of gold in her green eyes, the small laugh lines around her mouth that he’d never noticed from across the teacher’s lounge. “I’ve been trying to find someone to build a stand for my pottery wheel,” she said, her voice a little quieter than before, her fingers brushing the stained cuff of his flannel. “I know you’re retired, but I’d pay you. Can’t find anyone who does work as solid as yours.”
He almost said no, the word sitting right on the tip of his tongue, but then he thought about coming home to an empty house every night, about the way he’d spent the last three weekends sanding the same oak table for no reason just to have something to do, about the way she’d always remembered his coffee order, black with one sugar, when she brought him muffins all those years ago. The tight, anxious twist in his chest, the disgust he’d felt for so long at the idea of letting someone get close, melted away, replaced by a giddy, light feeling he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager asking a girl to prom. “I don’t need your money,” he said, and smiled, a real smile, not the stiff half-grin he gave strangers. “But I’ll do it. Wanna get coffee tomorrow at that little spot on 3rd? We can talk over the plans.”
Her face lit up, and she squeezed his arm lightly, her hand warm against his skin, before she grabbed a napkin and scribbled her phone number on it, drawing a tiny lopsided birdhouse next to the digits. She handed it to him, her fingers brushing his again when he took it. “I’ll be there at 10,” she said, and winked, before she turned to walk off to say hi to a group of old teacher friends who were waving her over.
He folded the napkin carefully and tucked it into the front pocket of his jeans, sipping his beer and watching her walk away, the faint warmth of her touch still lingering on his arm, the sound of her laugh still ringing in his ears. He reached down and grabbed a warm soft pretzel from the tray on the table, taking a bite, the salt and melted butter bursting on his tongue, and he stayed planted by the tent long after the oompah band finished their set, no urge to leave anywhere in sight.
