Ron Escobar, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, has spent the last 8 years avoiding every neighborhood social function since his wife Linda died of ovarian cancer. He hates the way neighbors pat his shoulder and say he’s “holding up so well” like it’s a performance he never signed up for, hates the pitying side glances when he turns down invitations to poker nights and potlucks. His grandson Javi, home from community college for the summer, basically frog-marched him to the annual July block party 20 minutes prior, and he’s been glued to the rolling cooler of craft beer ever since, too stubborn to leave but too uncomfortable to make small talk. His faded gray flannel sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing the pale scar snaking across his left knuckle from a table saw mishap in 2014, his calloused fingers wrapped tight around a sweating lager can.
He’s half considering sneaking back over his side fence when Mara steps around the guy grilling brats, headed straight for the cooler. Mara’s Linda’s 11 years younger cousin, moved into the blue bungalow three doors down after her messy divorce three years prior, and Ron’s spoken a grand total of 12 words to her in that time, all quick pleasantries shouted across yards while he hauled lumber or took his trash out. He’d always felt a stupid, sharp pull toward her back when Linda was alive, a flicker of something he’d squashed down hard with guilt every time she visited, laughing too loud at his bad jokes and asking him to show her the birdhouses he built for the backyard. She’s wearing cutoff denim shorts that show the scatter of freckles across her thighs, a loose white linen tank slung off one shoulder, and a tiny silver hoop in her left nostril he’d never noticed before.
She leans past him to grab a lime seltzer from the bottom of the cooler, her hip brushing his for half a second, warm through the thin cotton of his flannel, and he catches the scent of coconut sunscreen and peppermint gum mixing with the faint, sweet smell of the jasmine bush growing behind the cooler. She stands up straight, cracking the can open, and holds his eye contact for three slow beats, no polite smile, no quick look away, like she’s daring him to say something first. “I left a jar of pickled okra on your porch Tuesday,” she says, tilting her head, the ends of her light brown hair catching the sun so they glow gold. “Figured you’d assume it was Mrs. Henderson down the street, you never come out to say hi.” Ron blinks, heat creeping up his neck. He’d eaten half the jar last night with a bologna sandwich, had wondered why Mrs. Henderson’s okra tasted less bitter than usual, like she’d added extra garlic and a splash of vinegar.
He shifts his weight, the heel of his scuffed work boot scraping the cracked asphalt. “I didn’t know,” he says, and it’s the truth, but it feels like a flimsy excuse even to his own ears. “I sell cutting boards at the farmers market on Saturdays,” he adds, for no reason, like he’s proving he does leave his house for more than just lumber runs and grocery trips. She grins, holding up her left wrist, and he sees a tiny, black ink tattoo of a hand plane curled right above her pulse point. “I know,” she says. “Bought a maple one from you last month, said it was for my mom. Didn’t say who I was, figured you’d bolt before I could ask you the question I’ve been sitting on for six months.” The sound of kids screaming on the slip n slide at the end of the block cuts through the hum of conversation, and a soft breeze carries the smell of charcoal and grilled onions over to them.
The guilt hits him sharp, for a second, like Linda’s standing right behind him, rolling her eyes at how much of a coward he’s been. He’d spent 42 years with Linda, had loved every messy, loud, perfect minute of it, and for months after she died he’d promised himself he’d never even look at another woman, like that was some kind of loyalty test he had to pass to earn his spot next to her whenever his time came. But Linda had laughed at that kind of stupid, self-punishing garbage, had told him once when she was halfway through chemo that if he didn’t go out and have fun after she was gone she’d come back and haunt him by hiding all his favorite chisels and gluing his table saw trigger shut. He leans against the fence behind him, the rough cedar slat digging into his shoulder, and nods at her wrist. “You want to learn to carve?” he asks, like he’s not even thinking about it, like he hasn’t replayed that exact question in his head a hundred times when he’s in his woodshop late at night, sanding down the edges of a cutting board.
Her face lights up, and she steps a little closer, close enough that he can see the faint flecks of green in her brown eyes, the tiny laugh line at the corner of her left eye that matches Linda’s exactly. “I’ve been wanting to make a small bowl for my niece’s birthday next month,” she says, and her voice is softer now, less teasing, like she’s relieved he didn’t brush her off or make some awkward excuse to leave. “Figured you’d tell me to go watch a YouTube tutorial, or waste $200 on a beginner kit that’ll break after two uses.” Ron snorts, finishing the last sip of his beer and setting the empty can on the fence post next to him. “YouTube tutorials don’t tell you how to not cut your thumb off when the grain catches weird,” he says. “I’m free tomorrow afternoon, if you want to come over. Wear closed toed shoes, leave the fancy jewelry at home, I don’t want you catching a necklace on a lathe.”
She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and her knuckle brushes his forearm when she pulls her hand back, a quick, intentional little touch that sends a jolt up his spine, warm and sharp and nothing he’s felt in 8 years. “I’ll bring more pickled okra, and a six pack of that IPA you like,” she says, grinning, before she turns and walks back toward the grill, where her friend is waving her over. Ron stands there for another minute, watching her go, the faint tingle of her touch still on his arm, the sound of her laugh mixing with the crackle of the grill and the distant hum of a lawnmower down the street. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, shoots Javi a text saying he can head home whenever he wants, he’s not bailing on the party early after all.
