Elio Rizzo, 59, makes his living bringing dead typewriters back to life. His workshop behind the local historical society smells like machine oil, old paper, and the peppermint cough drops he sucks nonstop from October to May. His biggest flaw, if you ask his sister, is that he holds grudges longer than he keeps any of the vintage machines he restores. For 41 years, top of that grudge list was Mara Hale.
He’s manning the historical society booth at the annual Maplewood summer block party when he spots her. The VFW tent is strung with fairy lights that blink slow, the air thick with the smell of grilled brats and citronella candles, and he’s halfway through fixing a dented 1952 Royal Quiet De Luxe for a 12-year-old who writes poetry, when he looks up and sees her leaning against the beer tent pole, sipping a cherry hard seltzer. The silver streak in her dark brown hair catches the light, the same crinkle around her hazel eyes when she laughs at something the guy next to her says, and Elio’s jaw tightens. He’d thought she moved to Florida after high school, never coming back.
She spots him before he can duck behind the table of old newspaper archives. Her face lights up, she pushes off the pole, and walks over, sandals slapping the hot asphalt. She’s wearing a faded Pearl Jam t-shirt and cutoff denim shorts, a smudge of coconut sunscreen on her left shoulder, and she’s close enough before he can think of an excuse to leave that he can smell the cherry seltzer on her breath when she says his name.
“Elio Rizzo. I’d know that grease-stained flannel anywhere.” She leans in to tap the typewriter on the table, her bare arm brushing his forearm, and he flinches like he’s been burned. He still remembers the day his mom grounded him for three months, took his car keys, told him Mara’s mom had called to say she saw his truck parked at the lake the night of his engineering scholarship interview. He’d missed the meeting, lost the spot, spent two years working construction before he could afford community college, and he’d blamed her for all of it.
He opens his mouth to say something sharp, but she’s already picking up the loose typewriter key he’d set on the table, turning it over between her fingers. Her nail polish is chipped pale blue, her knuckles scarred from what looks like years of gardening, and her hand brushes his when she hands it back. “I owed you an apology for decades, by the way,” she says, and he blinks.
He asks what she’s talking about, and she leans against the edge of the table, shoulder pressed to his now, so close he can feel the heat off her skin through his flannel. She tells him her mom had driven past the lake that night, seen his truck, called his parents without asking her. She’d snuck out to meet him there, actually. Had a crush on him since 10th grade study hall, when he’d fixed her broken pen mid-test without her even asking. She’d covered for him as much as she could, but her mom was stubborn, and she’d been too scared to tell him how she felt, too guilty that she’d ruined his shot at the scholarship.
The confusion hits him first, hot and sharp, then the slow, stupid realization that he’d wasted 40 years mad at the wrong person. He looks at her, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear when she’s nervous, the laugh lines around her eyes, and all that old anger melts into something softer, something he hasn’t felt in years, not since his ex-wife left him 12 years prior. He tells her he used to stare at her in study hall too, thought she was the coolest girl in school, even when he was convinced she’d ratted him out.
She snorts, nudges his shoulder with her own, and asks him if he wants to ditch the block party. The lake’s still there, she says, the old overlook where they were supposed to meet that night. The sun’s going down in an hour, she brought a cooler of beer in her car, and the kid with the typewriter can pick it up tomorrow. He doesn’t even think before he says yes, shoves the typewriter in its case, locks the booth up, and follows her to the parking lot.
They take his beat up 2008 Ford F-150, the AC broken, windows rolled down, the wind carrying the smell of cut hay and lake water as they drive the old back road. He pulls into the gravel overlook, the same spot he’d parked 41 years prior, and they climb onto the hood, passing a cold beer back and forth as the sky turns pink and orange over the water. She grabs the typewriter from the passenger seat, sets it between them, taps out two quick letters, rips the paper out, and hands it to him.
The paper is crumpled at the edge, the ink dark and sharp, the word ‘hi’ typed dead center. He runs his thumb over the raised ink of the two letters before leaning down to kiss the salt off her cheek.
