Elias Voss, 53, antique typewriter restorer, had spent the better part of the last decade perfecting the art of bailing on small town events before they could force him to make small talk. His ex-wife’s very public departure for a 28-year-old kayak instructor had turned him into local trivia for three straight years, and he’d long since decided the only company he needed was his two tabby cats and the stack of 1920s Underwoods waiting for new springs in his garage workshop. He’d only shown up to the annual summer beer festival that Saturday because his college roommate, who owned the brewery hosting the thing, had threatened to stop giving him free stout for life if he bailed again. The air smelled like pine, charred bratwurst, and cherry sour ale, the gravel under his scuffed work boots crunched with every step, and a cover band at the far end of the field was slurring their way through *Free Fallin’* like they’d already had half a keg themselves. He’d already decided he’d leave in 10 minutes, tops, when someone stumbled into the woman standing 10 feet away from him, sending lemonade sloshing down the front of her high-waisted jeans.
He recognized her immediately. Mara Carter, the new town librarian, the one who’d testified in front of the city council three weeks prior to stop them from pulling 42 books from the young adult section, the one who’d gotten called a “groomer” in the local Facebook group and had flowers left on her porch by the same teens she was defending. Elias had avoided her for three months, even when she brought four beat-up typewriters to his shop for the library’s new after-school writing program, even when she’d laughed at his bad joke about sticky space bars and he’d felt his chest go tight in a way it hadn’t since 2015. He’d told himself it was to stay out of town drama, that getting caught up in whatever side of the book ban fight people thought he was on wasn’t worth the hassle, but he knew it was mostly cowardice, fear that if he let himself talk to her for more than two minutes he’d end up wanting something he’d convinced himself he didn’t deserve. He pulled the crumpled napkin he’d stuffed in his flannel pocket earlier out and stepped toward her, holding it out. Their fingers brushed when she took it, and he felt the faint callus on her middle finger, the same kind he had on his left index from 30 years of prying stuck typebars loose.
She thanked him, dabbing at the wet spot on her jeans, and leaned in a little to be heard over the band, her shoulder brushing his bicep when a group of drunk college kids pushed past them. She didn’t move away after, kept standing close enough that he could smell lavender hand cream and the faint, familiar scent of old paper that clung to her clothes, the same smell that filled his workshop every time he opened a typewriter case that had been stored in an attic for 50 years. She told him the kids at the library were obsessed with the Royal he’d fixed last week, that one 16-year-old had already written 40 pages of a vampire novel on it, and she laughed when he said that was exactly the kind of book the council would lose their mind over if they saw it. He noticed she kept holding eye contact longer than casual, that when she crossed her legs her scuffed white sneaker brushed the toe of his work boot once, twice, like she was testing the line between polite conversation and something more, like she knew he’d been avoiding her and didn’t care.
She mentioned she had a 1930s Underwood at her little cabin 20 minutes north of town, that the carriage was stuck so bad she couldn’t get it to move no matter how much oil she put on the rails, that she’d been meaning to ask him to come look at it for weeks. She said she’d make him peach pie for his trouble, that she’d seen him order a slice every Wednesday at the diner down the street from the library, that she made hers with extra cinnamon just like the kind his mom used to make. For half a second he wanted to say no, to make up an excuse about having a stack of repairs to finish, to think about the gossip that would spread if someone saw his truck parked at her cabin, the way the same people who called her names online would say he was just another guy falling for the “woke librarian” act. But then he looked at her, the way she was biting the corner of her lower lip like she knew exactly what he was thinking, the smudge of blue ink on her wrist from marking holds for library patrons, and the fear of being judged felt smaller than the buzz he’d gotten from just 10 minutes of talking to her, smaller than the eight years he’d spent hiding in his workshop from anyone who might make him feel something again.
He said yes. She grinned, pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket, typed her number into his old flip phone that he refused to replace because he hated social media, told him to be at her cabin by 11 the next morning, that the pie would be warm. He walked her to her beat-up Subaru at the edge of the parking lot, and when she opened the driver’s side door she turned back, leaned in, and pressed a soft, quick kiss to his stubbled cheek, her palm resting light on his chest for half a second before she pulled away. He stood there for a minute after she drove off, the faint warmth of her lips still on his skin, the sound of the band still playing in the background, and then he turned to walk back to his own truck, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that he didn’t have to force for anyone.
