Elias Voss, 54, has spent the better part of the last eight years holed up in his workshop behind the town’s only independent bookstore, gluing cracked leather spines back onto rare poetry collections and prying water-damaged pages apart with a tiny, sharp bone folder he’s had since trade school. His only consistent social interaction is arguing with the mayor at monthly city council meetings, where the guy keeps trying to slash funding for the public library’s rare book archive Elias runs on weekends. He only agreed to man the archive’s booth at the annual fall harvest festival because the library director baked him a batch of pecan cookies as a bribe, and by 7 PM he’s bailed to the beer tent, nursing a spiced pumpkin ale that’s sweeter than he likes, ink stains crusted into the cuffs of his faded plaid flannel, glasses slipping down his nose.
She slides onto the picnic bench seat next to him without asking, her knee brushing his denim-clad thigh hard enough that he jolts, and he recognizes her immediately: Clara, the mayor’s wife, 48, who he’s only ever seen standing three steps behind her husband at ribbon cuttings, wearing tailored dresses and a polite, blank smile. Tonight she’s in a chunky cream cable knit sweater that’s got a smudge of apple filling on the elbow, cuffed jeans, and work boots with half a dozen pieces of hay stuck to the soles, her hair pulled back in a messy braid that’s got a stray maple leaf tangled in the end. The scent of cinnamon and spiced cider hits him first, followed by the faint, sharp tang of the vanilla lotion he swears he’s smelled before, somewhere, even if he can’t place it.
She nods at his half-empty beer, orders her own, and when she reaches across the table to grab the bartender’s attention, her cold glass wrist brushes the back of his hand, sending a jolt up his arm he hasn’t felt since he was 20 and sneaking into his college library after hours with his first girlfriend. She says she just got done judging the pie contest, had to sneak away before the mayor pulled her into a photo op with the winner of the largest pumpkin contest, and Elias snorts before he can stop himself, says the mayor’s public speaking voice sounds like a whoopee cushion slowly deflating. She laughs so hard she snorts, clapping a hand over her mouth, and leans in so her shoulder is pressed firm to his, like they’re sharing a secret no one else can hear.
He knows he should move away. Everyone in this town knows who she’s married to, knows he’s spent six months screaming at her husband in council meetings, knows he’s got a well-earned reputation as a hermit who only talks to people if they’re asking about a first edition Frost. He’s spent eight years convinced anyone who shows interest in him only wants access to his personal collection of 19th century Americana, worth more than his house, and he’s gotten so good at shutting people out he almost doesn’t register that she’s talking about his archive, says she’s been coming to the quiet open hours every Wednesday for months, loves flipping through the hand-bound travel journals he restored last year. He never even noticed her, too focused on gluing pages or arguing with patrons who try to stuff books in their bags.
The fireworks start without warning, bright red and gold bursts lighting up the dark sky, and the crowd around the beer tent surges forward, jostling the picnic bench so hard she slips off the edge, and he catches her around the waist without thinking, his calloused fingers pressing into the soft knit of her sweater, her hands landing flat on his chest, their faces inches apart. He can feel the heat of her through both their layers, can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes lit up by the fireworks, and for three full seconds no one says anything, the distant boom of the explosions blending with the sound of their breathing. She says she’s leaving the mayor next month, already signed a lease on a small cottage on the edge of town, has a built-in bookshelf that’s completely empty, and has been trying to work up the nerve to ask him to help her fill it.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t overthink it, doesn’t worry about who sees them standing that close in the middle of the beer tent, doesn’t worry about the mayor throwing a fit or the town gossips having a field day. He says yes. They walk out of the festival grounds together, past the pie contest booth where a volunteer is packing up leftover slices, and she grabs a paper plate with half an apple pie left, splits it with him, their fingers brushing when he takes his half. The air is crisp, sharp with the smell of fallen leaves and wood smoke, and he’s forgotten what it feels like to walk next to someone who laughs at his dumb jokes, who actually pays attention to the thing he cares about most. Crunching sweet, spiced apple under his teeth, he tucks the stray strand of hay he pulled off her boot heel into his coat pocket as a silly, stupid souvenir of the night he stopped hiding.
