Rusty Hale, 62, builds custom fly rods out of his western North Carolina backyard workshop, four years removed from retiring from the Watauga County parks and rec maintenance crew. He’s spent eight years deliberately keeping to himself, ever since his wife Joan died of ovarian cancer, convinced any new person in his life would only see a gruff old guy with epoxy under his fingernails and a permanent trout slime stain on the knee of his work jeans. He only comes to the town’s annual July street dance out of habit; Joan used to drag him here every year, badgering him to dance even when he’d grumble his boots were too heavy for twirling. This year, he’s perched on the tailgate of his dented 1998 F150, sipping sweet tea from a chipped mason jar, when Elara Voss sits down next to him.
He recognizes her immediately: the 58-year-old librarian who moved to town from Charleston six months prior, the one who turned down three local farmers and a real estate agent when they asked her out, the one whose desk is stacked with dog-eared fly fishing guides and wildflower identification books. He’d only spoken to her once before, when he dropped off Joan’s old Appalachian nature poetry collection at the library. She’s wearing a flowy ivory linen dress dotted with sunflowers, silver hoop earrings catching the string lights strung across the street, and when she shifts to set her hard seltzer on the tailgate, her bare upper arm brushes his. He feels a jolt run up his spine, like the time he tapped a live electrical wire fixing a park light fixture 15 years prior. She smells like jasmine perfume and lemon Pledge, leftover from dusting the library’s rare book collection that afternoon.
He fumbles his mason jar, ice clattering loud enough to make her glance over, and she grins. The corner of her mouth has a tiny scar, he notices, like she got bit by a dog as a kid. She nods at the half-finished fly rod tossed on his truck seat, the bamboo shaft wrapped in bright blue thread for a 12-year-old with a prosthetic hand he’s been building it for. “That yours?” she asks, leaning in so he can hear her over the bluegrass band’s twangy rendition of “Foggy Mountain Breakdown.” Her knee presses against his denim-clad one, warm through the thin fabric of her dress, and he doesn’t shift away.
He nods, explains his side business, and when he glances at her wrist propped on the tailgate, he sees a tiny, faded tattoo of a brown trout wrapping around her pulse point. He points at it, and she laughs, holding her arm out so he can get a better look. She got it on her 40th birthday, she says, after she caught her first 20-inch brown on the Davidson River. She’s been bugging every local angler she meets for the best secret spots on the Watauga, she says, but everyone acts like she’s asking for the code to the town bank vault.
They talk through three more songs, the air thick enough with humidity that sweat beads at the back of his neck, the smell of fried onion rings from the nearby food truck mixing with her jasmine scent. He tells her the story of the time he accidentally glued a size 12 nymph hook to his thumb and drove himself to the ER, and she snorts so hard seltzer comes out of her nose. He hands her a crumpled napkin from his truck cup holder, their fingers brushing when she takes it, her palm soft but with faint calluses on the tips from decades of turning book pages. He can see Mrs. Henderson from the post office staring at them from the beer stand, eyebrows raised so high they’re halfway under her gray perm, and for the first time in years, he doesn’t care what the town gossips think.
The band slows down, striking up a waltz, and couples drift to the asphalt patch marked off as a dance floor. Elara twists to face him, her eyes glinting in the string lights, and asks him to dance. He freezes, throat going tight. He hasn’t danced since Joan’s 50th birthday, he says, he’s terrible at it, he’ll probably step on her feet so bad she’ll need an x-ray. She shrugs, standing up and holding her hand out to him. “I’m terrible too. I just don’t want to spend the whole night sitting on a truck tailgate.”
He hesitates three full beats, then takes her hand, letting her pull him to the dance floor. The old asphalt under his boots is still warm from the day’s sun, cedar chips scattered across it smelling like his workshop. He steps on her toe twice in the first minute, and she laughs, leaning her head against his shoulder for a split second, her breath warm against the sweat-slick skin of his neck. He rests his hand light on her waist, and for a second, he forgets how to breathe.
When the song ends, they walk back to his truck, and she leans against the passenger door, twisting a strand of dark gray-streaked hair behind her ear. She’s off next Saturday, she says. If he’s not busy, would he be willing to show her those secret spots he mentioned? He can bring the sweet tea, she’ll bring the hard seltzer, and she promises not to laugh if he hooks his own thumb again.
He nods so fast his ball cap slips down over his forehead. He’s got an extra rod he built for Joan, he says, it casts light enough for her to use all day without her arm getting sore. She leans in, pressing a soft, quick kiss to his cheek, her rose lipstick leaving a faint pink mark on his sunburnt skin. She’ll stop by the library Monday, she says, to pick up that vintage fly tying guide he offered to lend her. She waves as she walks toward her Subaru parked down the street, and he lifts a hand to wave back, his fingers still tingling where they’d held hers.
He pulls his phone out of his flannel shirt pocket, opens his calendar, and types “fishing with Elara” in the Saturday slot, his thumb only fumbling once before he hits save.
