Eli Rios, 59, earns his living restoring vintage typewriters out of a cinder block shop outside Asheville, NC. He’s spent 12 years intentionally avoiding casual connections ever since his ex-wife left him, a flaw he’s never bothered to fix—he hates small talk, hates unplanned interactions, would rather spend his nights tinkering with a 1950s Royal than making small talk with strangers. He only agreed to run a heritage display at the county fair because the historical society paid double his usual rate, and they let him bring his old hound dog Moe to nap under the table.
The first three hours pass uneventfully: kids hunt and peck silly notes on the working typewriters he brought, older folks stop to reminisce about typing high school papers on identical models. He’s half-asleep leaning against the tent pole when the woman running the adjacent jam booth leans over the wooden rail separating their spaces, holding out a warm biscuit slathered in peach jam. He recognizes her immediately: Lila Hale, ex-wife of his regular golf partner Tom. He’s known her 9 years, spoken less than a dozen full sentences to her, always strictly polite—bro code never left room for the quiet crush he’d harbored, even after she and Tom divorced three years prior.
“Figured you hadn’t eaten,” she says, her sun-warmed forearm brushing his when she sets the plate on his typewriter stand. He can smell coconut sunscreen, simmering peaches, and cut grass on her. Her tank top is dotted with jam stains, a flannel tied around her waist, and when he meets her eyes she doesn’t look away, holds his gaze for three full beats, a half-smile playing at her mouth. He fumbles the typewriter ribbon he’s holding, drops it at her feet, and when they both bend to grab it their heads knock together soft, making her snort-laugh loud enough to turn heads a few booths over.
They talk through the mid-afternoon lull, and he admits he’s bought her peach jam from the downtown farmers market every Sunday for six months, never connecting it to her. She laughs, says she’s ordered his custom typed recipe cards from his Etsy shop for a year to tuck into every jar she sells, never knowing he ran the store. They lean against the shared rail the rest of the afternoon, shoulders brushing off and on, passing sips of sweet tea when lines die down, her hand brushing his when she takes the typed flavor lists he pecks out for her display.
He’s torn the whole time, half horrified he’s even entertaining the spark between them, half giddy like a kid sneaking out after curfew. Tom is his closest friend, they’ve played golf every Saturday for seven years, and even though Tom’s been remarried for two years, crossing this line feels like a betrayal right up until the sun sets, the fair clears out, and a sudden torrential rain forces them both to huddle under the tiny awning over his booth, pressed shoulder to hip so close he can feel the heat of her skin through her shirt.
She tilts her face up, rain streaking her forehead, and admits she’s had a crush on him since she saw him spend an hour fixing her kid’s broken toy truck at Tom’s barbecue 8 years prior. He kisses her before he can overthink it, rain drumming so loud on the awning he can barely hear his own heartbeat, her hand curling around the back of his neck, her lip gloss tasting like peach and mint gum. He pulls back after a minute, fumbles for his phone to text Tom, unwilling to be the kind of guy who hides this. Tom texts back 10 seconds later: Took you two idiots long enough. I’ve been ordering jam from her and typewriter parts from you on purpose for a year to get you in the same room. Stop overthinking it.
He shoves his phone in his pocket, shows her the text, and she laughs so hard she has to lean against him to stay upright. She grabs a jar of her hot honey off the last remaining shelf of her booth, shoves it into his free hand, tangles her pinky with his when they make a run for his truck, rain soaking through the back of his flannel. He opens the passenger door for her, shakes rain off his baseball cap, and slides into the driver’s seat, the jar of honey warm between them in the cup holder.
