Rudy Voss, 62, spent most days hunched over a workbench in his garage, repairing vintage typewriters for collectors and high school kids who thought analog gear was cool again. A lifelong perfectionist who’d avoided any situation he couldn’t troubleshoot his way out of since his wife left him eight years prior, he’d only agreed to set up a booth at the neighborhood summer block party after his next-door neighbor badgered him for three straight weeks. He’d planned to stay an hour, max, sell a couple of keycap sets, and sneak back home to rewatch a recording of the 1998 World Series.
The air smelled like charcoal lighter fluid and burnt hamburgers, the local cover band fumbled through a Johnny Cash set at the far end of the street, and the sun hung low enough that the oak trees cast long, dappled shadows over his table of restored portables. He was wiping down a 1956 Royal Quiet De Luxe with a microfiber cloth when a shadow fell over the machine, and he looked up.
It was Marnie Cole, 58, the woman who’d moved into the house two doors down six months prior, the widow of his late older brother, the woman he’d not spoken to in 25 years. He’d avoided her since the moving truck pulled up, too ashamed of the stupid, unshakable crush he’d had on her when they were teens, too guilty that he’d even thought of her that way when she’d married his brother, too bitter about the family fight over their parents’ inheritance that had made his brother cut him off entirely two years after the wedding.
She was wearing cut-off denim shorts, a faded Dolly Parton tee, and work boots caked with a faint dusting of golden retriever fur—she ran a mobile pet grooming service, he’d heard through the neighborhood grapevine. She leaned in to get a better look at the Royal, her shoulder brushing his bicep, and he caught the scent of coconut shampoo and lemon Pledge, the same exact combination she’d worn when she was 20 and dating his brother. He froze, the cloth still pressed to the typewriter’s chrome body.
“Remember when you used to take apart your mom’s old Underwood in your bedroom and leave keys all over the floor?” She looked up at him, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, streaks of gray running through her auburn hair where the sun hit it. She held eye contact longer than polite, a half-teasing grin tugging at the corner of her mouth, and Rudy felt his face go warm. He’d forgotten how her voice sounded, low and a little rough around the edges, like she spent half her day laughing too hard.
He mumbled a reply, his throat tighter than it should’ve been, and went back to wiping the typewriter. She stayed, leaning against the table, asking questions about the machines, teasing him about still wearing the same brand of steel-toe work boots he’d worn in high school, telling him stories about her grooming clients, the chihuahua that thinks it’s a guard dog, the great dane that insists on getting belly rubs mid-bath. When he held up a replacement shift key to show her the faded ivory lettering, she reached out to take it, her fingers brushing his for half a second, and he felt a jolt shoot up his arm so sharp he dropped the key.
They both bent to grab it at the same time, their foreheads knocking softly, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, her hand coming to rest on his forearm to steady herself. She left it there for three full seconds, her palm warm through the thin cotton of his work shirt, and he didn’t pull away. For a minute, he forgot about the neighbors walking past, forgot about his dead brother, forgot about every rule he’d spent 25 years forcing himself to follow.
By the time the block party started winding down, the sun had dipped below the rooflines, and the band was packing up their gear. He’d stayed three hours longer than he planned, and when he started loading his typewriters into plastic storage bins, she offered to help carry the heavier ones back to his garage. He didn’t say no.
The garage was cool, smelling like machine oil and old paper, the only light coming from the string lights he’d strung above the workbench. She set the bin she was carrying down on the floor, then turned to face him, her back to the closed garage door. “I knew it was you the second I saw your name on the neighborhood Facebook group,” she said, soft, no teasing left in her voice. “I’ve been waiting for you to come say hi. I still have that mix tape you slipped me the week before my wedding, you know. The one with all the Waylon Jennings tracks.”
Rudy’s breath caught. He’d thought she’d thrown that away the second she got it. He’d spent 25 years telling himself wanting her was wrong, disrespectful, that his brother would’ve hated him for even thinking it, that the rest of the family would disown him if they ever found out. But standing there, looking at her, the same girl he’d sat next to at his senior prom when her date bailed, he realized the guilt he’d carried all those years was heavier than any judgment could ever be. “I thought it was messed up, to want you,” he said, quiet, like he was admitting a sin. “You were his wife.”
“Your brother was a good man, but he cheated on me for 10 of the 22 years we were married,” she said, stepping closer, so close he could feel the heat off her skin. “I spent a lot of years wondering what would’ve happened if I’d said yes when you asked me to that prom, instead of going with him.”
She leaned in then, kissing him soft, her lips tasting like the cherry limeade she’d been sipping all afternoon, and he didn’t hesitate, his hand coming to rest on her hip, calloused from years of working on typewriters, light, like he was scared she’d break. She smiled against his mouth, her arms looping around his neck, and for the first time in 25 years, Rudy didn’t feel the need to control a single thing.
The garage screen door creaked open a second later, his neighbor’s golden retriever darting inside to grab a stray piece of packing paper off the floor before bolting back out, the door slamming shut behind it.
