Roman Slade, 61, makes his living rebuilding vintage outboard motors out of the cinder block shop behind his northern Minnesota cabin, and his biggest flaw is that he’s spent the last seven years deliberately keeping his social circle down to three regulars at the local bait shop and the guy who delivers his winter diesel, ever since his ex moved to Phoenix and left a note that said he cared more about rusted 1960s Evinrudes than he ever did her. He can’t even argue that one; it’s half true. He’s at the annual county fire department fish fry only to drop off the fully restored 1957 Johnson he donated for the grand raffle, plans to grab a single plate of beer-battered walleye and hightail it back to his shop before anyone corners him into volunteering for fire watch or litter pickup or any other chore that cuts into his rebuild time.
He’s balancing the grease-soaked paper plate in one hand, the crumpled raffle ticket stubs he was strong-armed into buying in the other, when he bumps into someone hard enough that beer sloshes from a plastic cup onto the sleeve of his red plaid flannel. He opens his mouth to apologize, looks up, and freezes. It’s Marnie Hale, 58, who moved into the old A-frame three miles down his road two months prior, runs the local 4-H rabbit program, and is the ex-wife of his high school football rival Jake Hale, who broke Roman’s collarbone during a senior year playoff game and never stopped bragging about it. He’s only spoken to her twice before: once when she brought over a jar of dill pickles as a housewarming gift, once when her truck slid into a ditch last month and he pulled her out with his ATV. She’s got silver streaks woven through the auburn braid slung over her shoulder, freckles across her nose that never faded from 30 years of working outside, and she’s laughing so hard at his flustered fumbling that her shoulders shake.
She leans in a little to brush the leftover beer off his sleeve, her fingers brushing the bare skin of his wrist where the flannel is rolled up, her calluses from hauling rabbit cages and splitting firewood rough against his own calluses from 40 years of twisting wrench handles. She doesn’t step back after, stands so close he can smell the coconut shampoo she uses under the thick, warm cloud of fryer grease and charcoal smoke hanging over the fairgrounds. Their eyes lock for three full seconds, no awkward darting away, and he feels his neck heat up, a flutter in his chest he hasn’t felt since he was 17 and staring at her across the high school cafeteria when she was dating Jake.
The old, familiar voice in his head kicks in immediately, telling him this is a stupid idea. Jake still lives 20 minutes away, they run into each other at the bait shop every couple months, he’s still a loud, arrogant jackass who’d raise unholy hell if he found out Roman was so much as talking to his ex. Plus Roman’s got his whole “no attachments” routine down pat, tells himself he doesn’t need the hassle, doesn’t want to risk getting his heart stomped on again, that the only thing he needs in life is a motor to tear apart and a cold Pabst at the end of the day. But she’s asking him if he wants to sit at her table, her knee brushing his when they walk across the grass, the sound of her voice cutting through the noise of the crowd like a radio signal tuning in clear, and he can’t say no.
They sit through the raffle announcements, talking about motor parts and stubborn show rabbits and the time Jake tripped over his own cleats during the homecoming parade and face-planted into a tub of popcorn, their knees pressed together under the picnic table the whole time, no more accidental touches, just deliberate, slow, easy contact. When the announcer calls Roman’s ticket number for the grand prize, the very motor he donated, he snorts so hard he snorts beer out his nose, and Marnie whoops so loud the entire table next to them turns to stare. He walks up to grab the trophy plaque, and when he gets back to the table, he hands it straight to her.
“Don’t you want this?” she says, grinning, her hand brushing his when she takes the wood plaque from him.
“I built it for someone who’d actually use it,” he says, and he doesn’t even realize he’s flirting until she leans in so close her lips are almost touching his ear, the warm tickle of her breath making his spine tingle, says “I’ve got a 14 foot aluminum fishing boat that’s been sitting in my yard waiting for a motor just like this. You wanna take it out on the lake this weekend? I’ll bring the pickles. And more beer.”
He hesitates for half a second, the old voice screaming that this is going to end badly, that he’s going to mess it up, that he’s better off alone with his motors and his quiet. Then he looks at her, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiles, the way she’s twisting the edge of her flannel shirt like she’s just as nervous as he is, and he nods. He walks her to her beat-up Ford F150 when she leaves, and she taps the plaque tucked under her arm, says “Don’t be late Saturday. 7 a.m., the boat launch off Pine Road.” He doesn’t even argue about the ungodly early hour, just leans against the bed of his own truck and watches her taillights fade down the county road, the faint smell of coconut shampoo still lingering in the air next to him.
