Elias Voss, 53, has restored over 400 vintage typewriters in the 12 years since his wife packed a U-Haul and left him for the 26-year-old account manager at her marketing firm. He runs his shop out of the converted two-car garage behind his western Michigan cottage, talks to more remote clients over email than he does people in person, and has only attended three community events in the last decade, all of which he left within 20 minutes. His older sister had threatened to stop dropping off her famous chicken noodle soup every Tuesday if he skipped the town’s summer block party, so he’d showed up in a faded Carhartt shirt and work boots, parked himself by the beer tent, and been counting down the minutes until he could leave for the last 45.
She waves off his repeated apologies, says the shirt was a thrifted find anyway, and holds up the plate of loaded nachos she’s carrying, cheese still oozing down the sides. Mabel got into the bag of homemade chips she’d prepped for the party, she explains, so this is all she’s got, and she’d rather split it than eat alone by the port-a-potties. His first instinct is to say no, to make up an excuse about a 1950s Underwood he has to finish restoring for a New York client before the end of the week, but then he meets her eyes, hazel, flecked with green, crinkled at the corners like she laughs a lot, and he finds himself nodding. They carry the plate over to a pair of rickety folding chairs tucked under an oak tree at the edge of the party, far enough away that they don’t have to shout over the music or wave off every neighbor who’s been pestering him for months to “get back out there.”
Their knees brush when she leans over to grab a nacho loaded with extra jalapenos, and he tenses for half a second before he relaxes. He passes her a napkin when a blob of cheese dribbles onto her chin, their fingers brushing when she takes it, and he catches a whiff of jasmine shampoo and charcoal smoke that makes his chest feel light. She tells him she’s head of youth services at the town library, that she’s had her dad’s old Royal typewriter sitting in her attic for six months, that she’d been too nervous to stop by his shop because she’d heard from the local hardware store owner that he “hates talking to people.” He snorts, admits the reputation is mostly earned, but tells her he’d fix the Royal for free if she brings Mabel along when she drops it off.
The band shifts to a cheesy Tim McGraw track his ex used to blast on road trips, that she’d made him dance to at their wedding, and he tenses up, jaw tight. She notices immediately, leans in a little closer, her shoulder pressed to his, and says her late husband used to sing that song off key in the shower every Saturday morning, that she changes the station every time it comes on the radio. The relief is so sharp he almost laughs, and he finds himself telling her about the time his ex had tried to get him to sing it at a karaoke night, that he’d gotten so drunk he’d fallen off the stage. She laughs so hard she snorts, and he finds he doesn’t even mind when a couple of nearby neighbors glance over at them.
By the time the sun starts dipping low over the trees, painting the sky pink and orange, the beer tent is closing up, and Mabel comes trotting over, off leash, to nudge Mara’s hand with her wet nose. Mara stands, brushes crumbs off her pants, and asks if he wants to walk Mabel down to the lake with her, says the sunset over the water is the best part of summer in this town. He almost makes the excuse again, almost says he has work to do, but then he looks at her, cheeks pink from the beer, hair falling in a loose strand over her face, and he says yes.
The beach is mostly empty, only a few teenagers packing up coolers by the shore, and the lake wind is cold enough that he gives her his Carhartt to wrap around her shoulders. Mabel runs ahead, chasing a seagull, and Mara stumbles over a piece of driftwood, falling into his side. He catches her around the waist, his hand splayed over the small of her back, and she doesn’t pull away, leans into him for a beat before she straightens up, smiling up at him. He tucks a stray strand of windblown hair behind her ear, and for the first time in 12 years, he doesn’t feel the urge to rush home to an empty house.
