Roman Voss, 61, leans against the splintered edge of a picnic table at the county fire department’s annual summer fundraiser, grease crusted under the nails of his left hand where he’d been sanding a 1972 Triumph frame right before his niece dragged him out. He’s a vintage motorcycle restorer, has run his one-man shop out of the converted garage of his west Portland home for 17 years, and he hasn’t willingly attended a community event in almost a decade. Since his wife left him for a cloud software salesman in Seattle when he was 53, he’s stuck to a strict routine: work 10 hour days, eat frozen meatloaf for dinner, fish the Willamette on weekends, talk to no one longer than it takes to quote a part price or confirm a pickup date. His biggest flaw, the one he won’t admit to even himself, is that he’s written off every other human on the planet as either annoying, untrustworthy, or both.
He’s halfway through a lukewarm IPA, pretending to scroll through old photos of bike parts on his phone to avoid small talk with the retired mail carrier hovering two feet away, when he hears that laugh. Low, throaty, the one he’s heard through the glass front of his shop three times in the last two months, each time followed by a paper bag of snickerdoodles left on his front step before he could open the door to say no.
He looks up. It’s Clara Hale. 42, auburn hair streaked blonde from the sun, chipped cherry red nail polish, wearing cutoff denim shorts, scuffed cowboy boots, and a faded Tom Petty tour tee that hangs off one shoulder. She’s holding a paper plate stacked with pulled pork sliders, and she’s walking straight toward him. She’s married to Jake Hale, the county sheriff, the same guy who wrote Roman four noise tickets in one month 12 years back, who threatened to revoke his business license three times, who still side-eyes him at the gas station like he’s running a chop shop out of his garage.
She stops so close he can smell coconut sunscreen, wood smoke from the grill, and a hint of vanilla perfume over the sharp tang of beer and cut grass. “Figured you’d be hiding over here,” she says, holding out a slider. Their fingers brush when he takes it, calloused from sanding metal meeting soft, warm skin, and he feels a jolt run up his arm so sharp he almost drops the food. He hasn’t touched anyone who isn’t a cashier handing him change in seven years.
“I’ve been leaving those cookies,” she says, like he doesn’t already know, twisting the edge of her tee between her fingers. “Saw you feed that stray tabby outside your shop last month, gave it half your breakfast sandwich. Knew you weren’t as much of a grump as you act. My dad left me a 1978 CB750 when he died last year. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask you to restore it. You always look so busy, like you don’t want anyone bothering you.” She holds his gaze, dark brown eyes steady, no hint of shyness, and he realizes she’s leaning in just a little, like she’s sharing a secret.
Jake is 10 feet away, leaning against a fire truck, laughing with the fire chief, holding a beer in one hand. He glances over, sees them sitting together, and lifts his beer in a mocking little toast. Roman tenses, waiting for Clara to pull away, to act like they’re just casual acquaintances. She doesn’t. She doesn’t even look at Jake. She leans in closer, her breath warm against the shell of his ear, and he can feel the ends of her hair brush his cheek.
“Jake’s leaving for a two week training conference in Boise next Monday,” she says, her voice low enough only he can hear. “House is all mine. I’ve been thinking about you working on those bikes, your hands all covered in grease, for weeks. I’d like you to come over after he leaves. We can talk about the CB750. Or not.”
His chest tightens. Half of him is screaming that this is wrong, that he’s better than this, that he’s not the kind of guy who sneaks around with another man’s wife, especially not a man he hates as much as Jake. The other half of him, the part that’s been cold and closed off for eight years, is buzzing so loud he can barely hear the band. He’s spent so long acting like he doesn’t want anything, that he’s fine alone, that he’d forgotten what it feels like to have someone look at him like he’s worth wanting.
He doesn’t say anything. He just slides his phone across the picnic table, screen unlocked, to her. She types fast, her thumb brushing his knuckle when she hands it back. The contact name is “Clara – CB750” with a tiny motorcycle emoji next to it.
She stands up, brushes a crumb of pulled pork off her shorts, and winks. She walks back over to Jake, leans up to kiss his cheek like she hasn’t just invited another man to her house, and glances over her shoulder at Roman once before she sits down next to her husband.
Roman tucks his phone into the inner pocket of his faded gray flannel, picks up the slider she handed him, and takes a bite, the sweet, smoky barbecue sauce coating his tongue the same way the thought of her is settling soft and warm in his chest.
