Elroy Voss, 54, spent 28 years teaching high school woodshop before a shoulder injury pushed him into early retirement three years prior. He’d spent every day since sanding down walnut and maple scraps into custom cutting boards, selling them every Saturday at the county farmers’ market, and talking to almost no one outside of the occasional customer asking about grain patterns. His only real flaw, if you asked the few people who knew him, was that he’d locked himself off from any kind of casual affection after his wife left him for a suburban realtor six years earlier; he’d convinced himself the quiet of his two-bedroom bungalow was all he needed, even when he’d lie awake at night wondering if he’d ever feel someone’s hand in his again.
He’d dragged himself to the town’s annual fall beer festival mostly because his next-door neighbor had pressed a free entry ticket into his hand and told him he was turning into a hermit. The air had that sharp October bite to it, nipping at the tips of his ears even under the faded gray Carhartt cap he wore most days, and the scent of fried oreos and smoked bratwurst curled through the crowd around him. He was leaning against a split-rail fence, sipping a sample of spiced pumpkin ale that tasted more like cinnamon than beer, when he spotted Maeve Carter.
He knew her only as his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the girl who’d been 24 and fresh out of agriculture school at his wedding 18 years prior, now 42 and running the goat cheese stand two spots down from his at the market. They’d exchanged polite nods and half-smiles for months, but never talked for more than 10 seconds at a time. She was wearing a scuffed denim jacket and beat-up cowgirl boots, a streak of silver cutting through the thick auburn braid slung over her shoulder, laughing so hard at a joke the cider stand worker told her that her eyes crinkled shut. She caught him staring a second later, and waved, weaving through the crowd of college kids and retirees to walk over to him.
She was carrying two plastic cups of amber ale when she stopped in front of him, holding one out. “Told the brewer to give me the good stuff, not the spiced sugar water you’re drinking,” she said, and when he took the cup from her, her knuckles brushed his, and he felt the rough callus on her index finger, the same one she got from milking her 12 goats twice a day. She leaned against the fence next to him, close enough that her shoulder pressed against his bicep when she shifted to watch a group of kids run past chasing a stray dog, and he could smell pine and lavender in her hair, mixed with the faint tang of goat milk soap she used.
The band shifted to a slow, twangy cover of a 90s country ballad, and a group of drunk college kids stumbled past, one of them slamming into Maeve’s back hard enough that she stumbled forward into Elroy’s chest. He wrapped his hand around her waist to steady her, his palm resting warm against the curve of her hip through the thick denim of her jacket, and he didn’t let go when she steadied herself. She tilted her head up to look at him, her pupils dark and wide in the fading pink sunset, and she didn’t pull away. “I know we’re not supposed to do this,” she said, quiet enough that only he could hear it over the noise of the crowd. “I don’t care. I’ve been staring at you at the market for three months, waiting for you to talk to me first.”
He didn’t say anything in response, just ran his thumb along the edge of her jacket, rubbing slow circles against her hip bone, and nodded. The crowd was too busy watching the band to pay attention to them, the air was still crisp enough that he could see his breath when he exhaled, and for the first time in six years, he didn’t feel like running from the quiet thrill of wanting someone.
He finished his beer, set the empty cup on the fence post next to him, and laced his fingers through hers, his calloused woodworking hands fitting perfectly against hers, worn rough from years of farm work. They walked out of the fairgrounds together, the crunch of fallen maple leaves under their boots, his old F150 parked half a block away under an oak tree. He opened the passenger door for her, and she slid in, reaching across the center console to squeeze his hand when he got in the driver’s seat next to her. He turned the key in the ignition, the heater kicked on blowing warm air over their cold hands, and he pulled out onto the quiet street, heading toward his bungalow, no more hesitation holding him back.
