Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired antique typewriter restorer, had dragged himself to the West Asheville beer garden only because his next-door neighbor had left a free 90s country cover show ticket taped to his screen door. He’d spent the prior three days hunched over a water-damaged 1952 Royal Quiet De Luxe, his knuckles crusted with metal polish, and figured an hour of loud twang and cold IPA beat staring at a rusted type basket for another night. He’d worn his late wife’s faded red flannel over a plain white tee, even though the humidity hung thick enough to drink, out of habit more than anything—he hadn’t washed it in three months, and it still carried faint traces of her lavender shampoo and the apple butter she’d slathered on toast every morning.
He’d claimed a wobbly high top at the edge of the crowd, half hidden by a potted fern, when the band struck up “Friends in Low Places” and the packed crowd surged backward. A woman in a cut-off 1998 Garth Brooks tour tee and frayed denim shorts stumbled into the leg of his table, sloshing half her frozen margarita down the front of his flannel sleeve. Ronan’s jaw tightened first, the familiar spark of irritation flaring—he hated crowds, hated accidental contact, hated anything that disrupted the quiet routine he’d built in the eight years since his wife died. Then he looked up.
The woman, Mara, 58, owned the used bookstore three blocks from his cottage, the one with the hand-painted sign out front that read NO BAD BOOKS, NO JERKS. She was already dabbing at his sleeve with a crumpled napkin, her thumb smudged with blue ink from stamping book spines, her face pink with embarrassment. “I am so sorry,” she half-yelled over the crowd, her voice warm and rough. “These boots have zero traction, and the guy behind me decided to do a line dance move in two square feet of space.” Her hand brushed his forearm as she wiped at the sticky margarita residue, and Ronan felt a jolt shoot up his spine he hadn’t felt since his first date with his wife, 37 years prior.
He waved off her apologies, pulled out the extra stool at his table, and offered her the last of his fried pickle slices. She sat so close their knees knocked under the table when she shifted to face the stage, and every time she leaned in to yell a comment about the band’s terrible harmonies, her shoulder pressed against his, and he caught a whiff of her perfume—lavender, same as his wife’s, but mixed with old paper and vanilla vape smoke. She teased him about the typewriter lapel pin he wore on his tee, asked if he collected them, and when he told her he restored them for 30 years, she leaned in even closer, her eyes bright, and told him she’d been looking for a portable Smith Corona for years to write her terrible romance poetry on.
The band shifted to a slow, syrupy rendition of Lonestar’s “Amazed” and the crowd pulled closer, couples swaying in the small open space by the stage. Mara nudged his arm with her elbow, nodding at the dance floor. “C’mon,” she said. “I haven’t danced since my divorce was finalized in 2017. You look like you haven’t danced since Reagan was in office. We’ll be the worst pair out there, no pressure.” Ronan hesitated, his first instinct to say no. Then he looked at her, her chipped navy nail polish, the streak of silver in her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, the way she was smiling like she already knew he’d say yes, and he stood up.
He was stiff at first, his hands hovering over her waist like he was scared to touch her, but she laughed and pulled his hands down, resting her own on his shoulder. They swayed off-beat, their shoes scuffing the gravel, and when a drunk guy in a cowboy hat stumbled into them, she stumbled into his chest, her cheek brushing his for half a second. He didn’t pull away. He could feel the warmth of her through her thin tee, and the tight, heavy feeling he’d carried in his chest since the day his wife died didn’t feel like it was there, not for a minute. He’d spent eight years convinced any kind of new connection was a betrayal, that wanting to feel warm again, wanted to be touched again, made him a bad husband. Standing there with Mara, the smell of margarita and old paper and lavender wrapping around him, he realized that wasn’t true.
When the song ended, they walked back to the table, and she ordered him another IPA, and he told her he had a fully restored 1962 Smith Corona in his workshop that he’d been meaning to give away, that it was perfect for writing bad poetry. She asked if he wanted to bring it by the bookstore tomorrow, then get pancakes at the 24-hour diner down the street after, the one that served blueberry pancakes big enough to cover a plate. He said yes. When she tucked a stray strand of silver hair behind her ear and grinned, he felt the tightness in his chest that he’d carried for eight years loosen, just a little.
