Ronan Hale, 52, makes his living restoring antique typewriters out of the sun-faded garage behind his Grand Rapids bungalow. He’s a stubborn perfectionist, the kind who will spend 14 hours straight filing a bent type bar instead of calling it a night, the same flaw that blew up his marriage 12 years back when he skipped a planned anniversary trip to Paris to finish a 1920s Underwood for a wealthy collector. He’d avoided casual connections ever since, even more so after his best friend Joe dropped dead of a sudden heart attack three years prior—Joe’s little sister Mara had started dropping off random typewriter parts she found at estate sales, and the pull he felt around her felt like a betrayal he couldn’t afford.
The August block party on his street was the last place he wanted to be, but the neighborhood association had strong-armed him into setting up a small booth of restored machines to draw foot traffic. The air smelled like charred brats, cut clover, and the sticky sweetness of the cotton candy stand two booths down, sweat sticking the collar of his linen work shirt to the back of his neck. He was buffing a scuffed Royal Quiet De Luxe with a microfiber cloth when he heard that laugh, low and warm, and his hands stilled.
He didn’t look up until she was leaning against the edge of his folding table, her sun-streaked brown hair pulled back in a loose braid, a beat-up 1950s Smith Corona tucked under one arm, an iced coffee sweating in her other hand. She was 48, a part-time children’s librarian, and she’d been teasing him for six months about working too hard, about never taking a Saturday off to go to the lake. He’d brushed her off every time, guilt coiling tight in his chest every time he caught himself staring at the freckles across her nose, at the way her sundress fit the curve of her hips.
She held the typewriter out to him, and when he reached to take it, the side of her hand brushed his, calloused from turning library pages and digging through estate sale boxes, warm from the sun. He could smell coconut sunscreen and the faint vanilla of her coffee, and his throat went dry. “Found this in my mom’s attic,” she said, nodding at the cracked space bar, leaning in closer so he could hear her over the chatter of the crowd and the country music playing from the speaker at the end of the block. “Figured you’d tell me if it’s worth saving.” She sat on the empty folding chair next to him, her knee brushing his through the thin fabric of his work pants, and she didn’t move away when he didn’t shift. They talked for 40 minutes, him pointing out the dented shift key, the intact ribbon spool, her asking questions about how to straighten bent type bars, her eyes locked on his the whole time, no polite glancing away, no awkward pauses. He found himself laughing, something he rarely did outside of working on a machine that finally fired correctly, and he forgot to feel guilty for 20 whole minutes.
The party wrapped up just after 9, the sun dipping low over the western horizon, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and soft pink. Most of the neighbors were packing up coolers and folding chairs, kids trailing behind them sticky with cotton candy and popsicle juice. Mara was still sitting there, swinging her bare feet, having kicked her flip flops off 20 minutes prior, twisting the strap of her sundress around one finger. “You gonna ask me to walk down to the lake with you, or am I gonna have to invite myself?” she said, grinning, and Ronan froze. For half a second he almost made up an excuse, almost said he had to get home to finish the Underwood he was working on, almost let the guilt of liking Joe’s little sister win. But then he looked at her, at the smudge of cotton candy pink on the corner of her mouth, at the way she was looking at him like he wasn’t just the grumpy typewriter guy who’d known her since she was 16, and he shook his head, laughing softly. “C’mon then,” he said, locking the metal case holding his display typewriters, leaving the rest for the morning.
The walk to the lake took 10 minutes, the sand still warm from the day under their bare feet, the cool lake wind cutting through the residual heat. She pointed out a great blue heron standing stock still in the shallows, her shoulder bumping his when she leaned in to point, and he didn’t move away. She admitted she’d been digging up typewriter parts on purpose for six months, just to have an excuse to stop by his garage, and he admitted he’d been avoiding her because he thought liking her would be a betrayal of Joe. “Joe would’ve teased you for being an idiot for waiting this long,” she said, and he knew she was right. He reached out, brushed a strand of windblown hair off her face, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek, and she leaned into the touch. They stopped at a weathered wooden picnic table half buried in the dunes, and she pulled the Smith Corona out of her canvas bag, said she wanted him to teach her how to restore it, so they could work on it together on weekends. He sat next to her, their thighs pressed tight together, and tapped the cracked space bar once, the metal clacking sharp and clear even damaged. Somewhere down the beach, a group of teens lit a bonfire, and the faint glow gilded the edge of her smile as she met his eyes.
