Elroy Voss, 62, retired custom woodworker, loitered at the back of the county fire department’s annual chili cookoff tent, paper bowl of three-alarm sloshing slightly in his calloused hand. Sawdust still caught in the cuffs of his worn work jeans, a leftover habit he couldn’t shake even six months after locking up his Asheville-area shop for good. He’d come only because his old apprentice begged, said it’d get him out of the empty cabin he’d holed up in since his wife Lila died eight years prior. The noise of rowdy families and country radio was starting to grate, and he was two steps from the exit when a woman’s shoulder slammed into his bicep.
Chili splattered up both their sleeves, cumin and smoked paprika stinging the tiny cut on his wrist he’d gotten splitting firewood that morning. He started to apologize, looked up, and froze. It was Marnie Cole, Lila’s college roommate and best friend, the woman he hadn’t spoken to in seven years, not since the screaming match at Lila’s funeral where she’d called him a coward for shutting everyone out and he’d told her to go to hell. She still wore those chunky silver rings Lila had made her for their 30th birthday, silver streaks threading through the dark chestnut hair she’d always worn pulled back in a messy braid, her fingertips faintly stained with blue ink from restocking poetry books at her shop earlier that day. Her corduroy jacket was dotted with chili grease, and she was laughing, not angry, the same low, warm laugh he’d heard a hundred times at backyard barbecues and holiday dinners.
She wiped at her sleeve with a crumpled napkin, teasing him about still looking like he’d just stepped out of a lumber pile. He teased her right back about still tripping over her own feet in crowded rooms, the way she always had. The tent was packed, bodies jostling them every few seconds, their shoulders brushing so often he stopped counting, heat seeping through the flannel of his shirt every time they touched. She said he owed her a beer to make up for ruining her favorite jacket, and he agreed before he could overthink it.
The walk to the dive bar three blocks down was crisp, apple and wood smoke hanging in the October air. She walked close enough that her elbow knocked his every other step, and he didn’t move away. The bar smelled like peanut shells and cheap bourbon, Johnny Cash crooning low on the jukebox when they slid into a booth in the back. She told him she’d gotten divorced three years prior, that she’d bought the small downtown bookstore she’d always talked about, that she’d thought about reaching out to him a dozen times but didn’t want to get yelled at again. He admitted he’d thought about reaching out too, that he’d been an idiot back then, that he’d spent so long convinced being happy meant betraying Lila he’d forgotten how to talk to anyone who knew the both of them.
Their knees brushed under the table when she leaned in to tell him a story about Lila gluing their college professor’s stapler to his desk senior year, and she didn’t pull away. He could smell lavender lotion on her wrists, the same brand Lila had worn for 40 years, and for half a second he felt a sharp twist of guilt, like he was doing something wrong. Then she looked up at him, eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed at the story, and the guilt melted into something softer, warmer, something he hadn’t felt in almost a decade. He reached out without thinking, brushed a stray strand of hair off her forehead, his calloused fingers grazing her cheek. She didn’t flinch, just held his gaze, and said she’d always known Lila would want him to stop punishing himself for being alive.
They finished their beers as the sun went down, the bar filling up with locals stopping in after work. He offered her his flannel when they stepped outside, the wind sharp enough to make her shiver, and she slipped it on, sleeves too long, cuffs falling past her knuckles, the fabric smelling like his pine soap and sawdust. He walked her to the apartment above her bookstore, stopping on the porch steps when she fumbled for her keys. She turned to him, leaned in slow, and kissed him, soft and unhurried, her hand resting light on his chest. He kissed her back, his hand settling on the small of her back, no rush, no guilt, no overthinking. She pushed open her front door, stepped halfway inside, and asked if he wanted to come in for decaf, the kind Lila used to make them both after late nights.
He stepped over the threshold after her, boots scuffing the welcome mat she’d painted with sunflowers the summer before Lila got sick.
