Ronny Voss, 62, spent 38 years restoring antique typewriters out of a cinder block shop in downtown Boise before selling the store last spring. He only takes on one or two custom jobs a month now, mostly for long-time collectors, and carries a dented flathead screwdriver in his front jeans pocket everywhere he goes, a habit picked up after he spent three hours stranded at a 2019 typewriter convention without a tool to fix a jammed 1930s Underwood he’d hauled three hours to display. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, is that he’s hidden from every potential casual connection since his wife left him for a farm equipment salesman 12 years prior, too stubborn to let anyone get close enough to let him down again.
He’s at the Ada County Fair on a sticky mid-August Tuesday to drop off a fully restored 1952 Royal Quiet De Luxe for the vintage small business display, the case slung over his shoulder, his work boots crusted with dust from the dirt parking lot. The air smells like fried dough and cut alfalfa, and the AC in the admin building hits him so hard the sweat on his forearms cools instantly, raising goosebumps along the hair there.
Lila Marlow is leaning against the front desk when he walks in, 48, the fair’s operations coordinator, fresh off finalizing her divorce three months prior, her dark hair braided down her back with a sunflower clip holding loose strands off her face, a smudge of cotton candy pink on the edge of her jaw, her polo shirt stained with marker from making ride signage the night before. She’s Joe’s daughter, Joe being Ronny’s best friend and shop neighbor for 22 years until he dropped dead of a heart attack fixing a flat on his pickup five years prior, and Ronny promised him on his deathbed he’d look out for her. He’s stuck to only quick holiday check-ins ever since, too ashamed of the quiet spark he’d felt whenever he saw her after she turned 40, convinced acting on it would be a betrayal of the only man who’d had his back when his wife left.
She lights up when she sees him, pushing off the desk to meet him halfway, and when she leans in for a hug, her chest brushes his bicep, the scent of coconut sunscreen and cherry Kool-Aid wrapping around him so fast he freezes, his hands hovering awkwardly over her back for half a beat before he pats her gently, pulling away faster than he needs to. She laughs, low and warm, and nods at the typewriter case slung over his shoulder, teasing him for hauling the 20-pound machine all the way across the fairgrounds when she could have sent a volunteer to pick it up.
He follows her back to the display tent, the sound of carnival rides and screaming kids carrying on the breeze, and when they get to the shelf where the typewriter is supposed to sit, she huffs, pointing out the wobbly front bracket. He pulls the flathead out of his pocket without thinking, stepping in close to tighten it, his shirt riding up his lower back when he reaches over his head, exposing the thin, silvery scar he got when a crate of typewriter parts fell on him in 2008. She mentions it offhand, says she remembers Joe teasing him for three weeks straight for crying over a “stack of overpriced metal,” and Ronny laughs, a loud, rough sound he hasn’t let out around anyone who isn’t his cat in at least six months.
When he passes her the Royal to set on the shelf, their fingers brush, his calloused from 40 years of sanding typewriter keys and twisting screwdrivers, hers soft but with a rough blister on the index finger from a staple gun accident the day before. She holds the contact for a full two beats, not pulling away, and when he meets her eyes, her pupils are blown wide, the gold flecks in her hazel irises catching the sun filtering through the tent mesh. He feels his face heat up, a stupid, boyish flush he hasn’t felt since he was 16 and asked his first girlfriend to prom, and he fumbles for an excuse to leave, terrified he’ll say something stupid that crosses the line he’s drawn for himself for 8 years.
She stops him before he can grab his case, says she saved him a slice of peach pie from the contest entries, his favorite, the same kind Joe used to bring him from the fair every year without fail. He hesitates, the voice in his head screaming that he’s betraying Joe, that this is wrong, that he’s too old, too set in his ways, too much of a mess for someone like her. But when she tilts her head, grinning, and says she already paid for it, he nods, following her to the bleachers by the pie tent.
The sun is dipping below the cornfields by the time they sit down, painting the sky pink and tangerine, the noise of the fair softening into a low, warm hum around them. She passes him the paper plate with the pie, and their hands touch again, this time she doesn’t pull away, lacing her fingers through his for half a second before letting go to grab her own slice. “I know you think Dad would yell at you,” she says, quiet enough that only he can hear, picking at the crust of her pie, “but he told me two weeks before he died that if I ever left that deadbeat husband of mine, you were the first person I should call. Said you were the only good man he ever knew.”
Ronny stares at her, the words knocking the breath out of him, all the excuses he’s been telling himself for years crumbling so fast he can barely catch up. He reaches over without thinking, brushing the pink cotton candy smudge off her jaw with his thumb, his hand lingering on her cheek for a beat, and she leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering shut for half a second. They finish their pie in comfortable silence, watching fairgoers mill around below the bleachers, the temperature dropping just enough that Ronny can feel the heat of her shoulder through his flannel shirt when she shifts closer to him.
When the first red firework bursts overhead, painting her face bright crimson, he laces his calloused fingers through hers, and doesn’t let go.
