Ronan O’Malley, 52, makes his living restoring antique typewriters from a converted garage behind his cottage on the western shore of Lake Michigan. He’s a stubborn recluse, hasn’t pursued anything resembling a social or romantic life since his wife left him for a travel nurse eight years prior, limits his outings to weekly grocery runs and every-other-night stops for a single Miller Lite at the dive tavern three blocks from his house. He avoids local events like the plague, hates the way neighbors pry into his business, hates small talk more than he hates fixing typewriters stuffed full of cat hair and decades-old snack crumbs. The only exception to his rule this year is the summer block party, and that’s only because his 78-year-old next door neighbor showed up on his porch at 4 PM with a tupperware of potato salad and a threat to stop leaving him fresh rhubarb from her garden if he didn’t come.
He’s been leaning against the support pole of the beer tent for 45 minutes when she walks up. He’d recognize her anywhere, even out of her blue USPS uniform, even with her auburn hair loose instead of pulled into the tight bun she wears on his route. She’s his mail carrier, the one who’s been covering his route for the past six months, the one he’s made a point of avoiding eye contact with after he caught himself leaning against the doorframe waiting for her 10:30 AM drop off three Tuesdays in a row. He’d told himself he was being a creep, that hitting on someone just doing their job was the lowest of the low, that he was too old for that kind of teenage nonsense, had successfully limited their interactions to a stiff “thanks” and a quick nod when she handed him packages.
The crowd is thick with people jostling for refills, and she bumps her hip hard into his when she steps up to the tent, the cold metal of her own beer can pressing into his wrist for half a second before she steps back, freckled cheeks pink from the 80-degree heat. “Sorry about that,” she says, grinning, and her voice is the same as it is when she yells “package!” from his porch, only warmer, no wind off the lake muffling it. “Didn’t think I’d see you out here. I figured you lived in that workshop 24/7.”
He stammers out a half-coherent explanation about his neighbor’s rhubarb blackmail, and she laughs so hard she snorts, leans against the pole next to him, her arm brushing his. The air smells like grilled brats, citronella candles, and the coconut sunscreen she’s wearing, and he’s suddenly hyper-aware of how close she is, how her cutoff jean shorts show the faint scar on her left knee, how her faded Fleetwood Mac tee has a tiny hole right at the collar. When she mentions she found an old 1940s Underwood in her grandma’s attic a few weeks back, has been meaning to ask if he could take a look at it, he agrees so fast he nearly spills his beer.
They migrate to a picnic table a few feet away, and when she sits, her bare calf brushes his jean-clad one, doesn’t move away, just keeps talking about how the post office is so short staffed she’s been covering three routes some days, how she’s had to start carrying pain reliever in her bag for her shoulder from hauling heavy packages up porch steps. When he tells her the story of the customer who shipped him a 1950s Royal stuffed full of popcorn kernels and a dead moth, she leans forward, her hand brushing his forearm for a beat, and he can feel the thick callus on her index finger from lifting mail bins all day. He’s torn between leaning into the touch and pulling away, half disgusted with himself for how badly he wants to reach out and tuck the strand of hair falling in her face behind her ear, half giddy that she’s the one initiating contact, that she doesn’t seem to mind sitting so close.
He snorts, picks at the label on his beer can. “Haven’t danced since my wedding. Stepped on my ex’s dress three times. Pretty sure I’m banned from all dance floors on principle.”
She grins, stands, holds out her hand, calluses and chipped navy nail polish and all. “That sounds like a skill issue. C’mon. I won’t sue if you step on my feet.”
He stares at her hand for three full seconds, ignores the voice in his head screaming that he’s going to mess this up, that the whole town is going to gossip, that he’s too old to be making a fool of himself over a woman he barely knows. He takes her hand. Her palm is warm, a little sweaty, she tugs him to the dance floor, wraps her other arm around his shoulder, and when he rests his hand on her waist, he can feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her tee. She leans in, her mouth close to his ear so he can hear her over the music, and her breath is warm against his neck. “For the record,” she says, quiet, “I’ve been making up fake delivery slips just so I can stop by your shop an extra time a week. I like the old jazz records you always have playing.”
All the noise in his head goes quiet right then. They don’t talk much after that, just sway slowly to the music, his hand loose on her waist, hers tangled a little in the hair at the nape of his neck, their foreheads almost brushing when they both laugh at the drunk guy two feet away who’s dancing by himself, spinning in circles with a plastic cup held over his head. When the song ends, the band announces they’re taking a 15 minute break, and she steps back, but doesn’t let go of his hand right away.
She says she’s got the Underwood in the back of her beat-up Ford Ranger, can bring it by his shop tomorrow at 11, if he’s not busy, and maybe they can get tacos from the food truck on Main after he looks at it. He nods so fast he almost gives himself whiplash, says he’ll clear his whole morning, no plans at all. He walks her to her truck, she climbs up into the driver’s seat, leans across the center console, presses a soft, warm kiss to his cheek that lingers for a second before she pulls back. She winks, turns the key in the ignition, says don’t go hiding in your workshop and pretending you’re not home, yeah?
He stands there in the grass, holding his crumpled empty beer can, watching her taillights fade around the corner, and for the first time in eight years, he’s already counting down the minutes until 10:30 AM rolls around.
