Manny Rocha, 62, spent 38 years as an industrial chimney inspector, climbing 300-foot stacks across the Pacific Northwest to spot cracks and corrosion before they turned into explosions. His wife of 32 years died of ovarian cancer in 2016, and he’s spent the years since holed up in his one-room cabin outside Silverton, only leaving to restock beer and help his niece move furniture every few months. His biggest flaw: he’s convinced any romantic connection after 60 is just a sad attempt to fill a hole that can’t be patched, no matter how good the caulk.
He’s at the annual Marion County Harvest Festival only because his niece threatened to stop bringing him her famous peach pie if he skipped again. He’s leaning against a splintered wooden post at the craft beer tent, nursing a hazy IPA that tastes too fruity for his taste, watching a group of college kids yell over a cornhole board when he shifts his weight to avoid a toddler running with a cotton candy stick, knocks a half-pint of spiced hard cider off the post behind him.
It splatters all over the cream linen skirt of the woman standing next to him, dark amber splotches spreading across the fabric from her hip to her knee. He freezes, grabs a handful of crumpled napkins from the stack on the bar, and leans in before he can think better of it, his shoulder brushing hers as he dabs at the mess clumsily. He can smell lavender hand lotion and the cinnamon sugar from the churro stand 10 feet away, can feel the heat of her arm through his faded Carhartt jacket.
She laughs, a low, throaty sound that makes him stop dabbing. “Relax,” she says, swiping a napkin from his hand to wipe at a spot on her calf. “I hated this skirt anyway. My sister bought it for my 58th birthday and told me I needed to stop wearing flannel to story time. Joke’s on her.” She holds out a hand, calloused at the fingertips, a tiny tattoo of an open book peeking out from the cuff of her denim jacket. “Elara. I’m the new part-time librarian over at the Silverton public branch.”
Manny blinks, shakes her hand, his own calloused palms rough against hers. “Manny. Retired chimney inspector.” He nods at the splotches on her skirt. “Let me make it up to you. Buy you another drink. Or a new skirt, if that’s easier.”
She snorts, leans against the post next to him, their elbows brushing when she lifts her beer to her mouth. “A drink works. But you can make extra restitution by helping me kick those snot-nosed college kids’ asses at cornhole. They’ve been trash talking every middle-aged person who walks by for an hour.”
He hesitates for half a second, already mentally drafting the excuse about needing to get home to feed his cat (he doesn’t have a cat) before he nods. They walk over to the board, and every time they toss a bean bag, their arms brush. When he calls one of the kids a “cocky little shit who’s never had to scale a 250-foot stack in 98 degree heat to make rent,” she leans into his side, laughing so hard she snorts, and he can feel the warmth of her body through his jacket. Their fingers brush when they pass each other their beers between rounds, and he notices the tiny silver stud in her left nostril, the streak of electric blue in her gray hair, the way she bites her lower lip when she’s focusing on a toss.
For the first time in 7 years, he’s not thinking about the quiet of his cabin, or the photo of his wife on his kitchen counter, or how much he hates crowds. He’s thinking about the way she throws a bean bag hard enough to knock a full stack off the back of the board, the way she teases him when he misses a toss by a foot, the way she doesn’t treat him like he’s a fragile old man who’ll break if he moves too fast. A tiny, guilty part of him feels like he’s doing something wrong, like he’s betraying the promise he made to himself to be alone for the rest of his life, but the rest of him is lighter than it’s been in years.
They win by 12 points, and the college kids grumble and hand over the $50 diner gift card that was the grand prize. Elara turns to him, so close he can feel her breath on his cheek, the sun setting pink and orange behind her, painting the edges of her hair gold. “I don’t want to split this,” she says, twisting the gift card between her fingers. “I want you to come to dinner with me tomorrow night. At the diner on Main Street. They make the best chicken fried steak west of the Cascades.”
Manny freezes, his throat tight. He almost says no, almost tells her he’s not the dating type, almost makes up a lie about having to fix a leak in his roof. But then she tucks a strand of gray hair behind her ear, and he sees the same quiet loneliness in her eyes that he sees in his own reflection every morning when he shaves. “Yeah,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it. “I’d like that.”
They walk out of the festival grounds together, the sound of the bluegrass band fading behind them, crickets chirping in the grass along the sidewalk. She doesn’t take his hand, and he doesn’t reach for hers, but their knuckles brush every few steps, and neither of them pulls away. When they get to her beat-up Subaru, she pulls a sharpie out of her purse, writes her phone number on the back of his hand, the tip of the pen warm against his skin. He stands there watching her drive away, long after her taillights have disappeared around the corner, the numbers on his hand still smudged a little from the sweat on his palm, the gift card folded tight in the pocket of his jacket.
