Elwood Rainer, 53, vintage camper restoration specialist, has avoided the annual Ashland Summer Beer Fest for six straight years. His old construction crew buddy Jimmie showed up at his workshop at 4 p.m. with a six pack of hazy IPA and wouldn’t leave until Elwood agreed to come, so here he is, leaning against a splintered cedar fence, sweating through the collar of his faded Carhartt shirt, condensation from his plastic beer cup dripping down his wrist. He hates crowded events full of well-meaning locals who’ve been trying to set him up with every single divorced woman within a 20 mile radius ever since his wife left for Portland seven years prior. His whole adult life he’s had the same stupid flaw: he’d rather sand fiberglass for 12 hours straight than make small talk with someone who doesn’t care what a 1968 Airstream Overlander’s original hinge finish looks like, convinced all casual connections end in messy, heart-sore goodbyes.
She’s wearing frayed cutoff denim shorts, a faded Fleetwood Mac t-shirt with a hole at the collar, bare legs dusted with freckles, silver hoop earrings glinting in the golden hour light dipping low over the Siskiyou Hills. She sees him, grins, picks her way through the crowd of drunk 20-somethings and retirees in foldable lawn chairs, weaving around a group of guys yelling over a cornhole game. She stops so close he can smell her coconut sunscreen and the faint tang of sour ale on her breath, her bare shoulder brushing his bicep when she leans in to yell over the music. She says she saw his beat-up 1972 Ford F150 parked out on the side street, knew he’d finally cave and stop hiding in his workshop for one night.
He nods, tries to play it cool, but his throat goes dry when her hand brushes his when she reaches for the extra napkin sticking out of his back pocket to wipe a spot of honey mustard off her wrist. She laughs, says sorry, doesn’t step back. They talk for 20 minutes straight: she complains about her husband’s endless, useless county meetings that keep him gone until 10 p.m. every night, he complains about a wealthy client from California who’s demanding he paint a mint-condition 1969 Airstream neon pink. Every few seconds, her arm brushes his, her knee knocks his when a group of drunk college kids jostles her from behind, she holds eye contact for two beats longer than she should, like she’s daring him to say what they’re both thinking.
He’s torn, the back of his neck hot with equal parts desire and sharp, uncomfortable guilt. He’s never been the guy who messes with married women, hates the idea of being the cause of some messy small town scandal that would get him run out of the local hardware store, but the way she’s looking at him right now, like he’s the only person in the whole crowd worth talking to, makes his chest feel tight enough to burst. He’s spent so long convincing himself he’s happy alone, he forgot what it feels like to have someone actually listen when he rambles about vintage camper sealant types, instead of tuning him out to ask when he’s going to start dating again.
She snorts when he makes a joke about the neon pink Airstream, then holds up her left hand, bare of the simple gold wedding band he’d seen her wear every other time they’d met. Says she’s filing for divorce next week, hasn’t worn the ring in three months, has been dying to ask him out since he dropped her dog off last spring. The tight knot of guilt in his gut unravels so fast he feels lightheaded, and he says he’s got a cooler of cold hard cider in his truck, parked just down the quiet side street, if she wants to get away from the noise for a minute.
She grins, grabs his wrist, pulls him through the crowd, her hand warm and calloused from hours tending to her backyard vegetable garden, the rough hem of her shorts brushing his calf as they walk. The side street is quiet, golden light filtering through the oak trees lining the curb, crickets starting to chirp in the tall grass at the edge of the sidewalk. He unlocks the truck, pulls the dented metal cooler out from the backseat, hands her a can of cider, their fingers brushing again when she takes it. She leans against the passenger side door, takes a long sip, looks up at him, says she’s been waiting three years for him to stop hiding and talk to her for longer than 10 minutes.
He laughs, says he was scared she was happy, didn’t want to mess that up. She shakes her head, leans in, kisses him quick, soft, the taste of cider and cherry lip balm on her mouth. He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair that’s come loose from her braid behind her ear, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek. She pulls her phone out of her back pocket, taps on the screen a few times, holds it up to show him a marked trail map for Table Rocks, scheduled for Saturday at 10 a.m. He nods, pulls his own beat-up flip phone out of his Carhartt pocket, fumbles with the keypad to add the date to his calendar. Somewhere a few blocks away, a firework pops bright red against the darkening indigo sky, and for the first time in seven years, Elwood doesn’t feel the urge to turn and run.
