Roland Voss, 53, wipes beaded sweat off his upper lip with the back of his calloused hand, the metal edge of his dobro pick digging into his palm. He just wrapped a 45 minute set with the local bluegrass jam at the Ashe County beer garden, the last notes of *Foggy Mountain Breakdown* still humming in his molars. The air smells like smoked bratwurst, pine resin, and hoppy IPA, the picnic table under his forearm sticky with three hours worth of spilled beer and mustard smudges. He’s avoided any mention of the banned book pop-up drama around town for weeks, too used to keeping his head down to avoid riling up the conservative regulars who drop off typewriters for restoration at his downtown shop. His divorce eight years prior left him allergic to conflict, quick to nod along even when he disagreed, convinced rocking the boat would cost him the quiet, unremarkable life he’d built after moving west from Milwaukee.
The crowd shifts, and he spots her. Maeve Carter, 48, the new pop-up librarian who’d moved to town three months prior, the one the county council just voted to defund last Tuesday for stocking books about queer teens and civil rights. She’s carrying a stack of neon pink flyers for her upcoming read-a-thon, cutoff jean shorts frayed at the hem, faded Dolly Parton tee clinging to her shoulders, work boots caked in mud from the community garden she tends on weekends. She’d dropped off a dented 1952 Royal typewriter at his shop last month to restore for the pop-up’s poetry station, had stayed for 20 minutes talking about how her mom taught her to type on the exact same model when she was a kid. He’d thought about that conversation every night since, had even sanded the Royal’s dents out extra slow, just to have an excuse to keep it in his shop a little longer.
She spots him, grins, and cuts across the lawn, weaving around picnic tables and toddlers chasing each other with popsicles. When she stops in front of him, she’s close enough that he can smell lavender and cedar shampoo, the faint tang of peach iced tea on her breath. “I was hoping you’d be here,” she says, and she leans against the picnic table next to him, her bare shoulder brushing his bicep through his thin, sun-faded flannel shirt. He tenses for half a second, then relaxes, the warmth of her skin seeping through the fabric. She sits down, and their knees knock when she shifts to set the flyers on the table, her knee pressing against his for a beat longer than necessary before she pulls back. He fidgets with his dobro pick, suddenly hyper-aware that the mayor, one of his highest-paying clients who’d dropped off three rare Underwoods for repair just last week, is staring at them from the table across the way, his mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line. The part of him that’s spent years people-pleasing screams to make an excuse, to walk away, to avoid the drama of being seen with the town’s most controversial new resident. The louder part of him, the part he’s ignored for almost a decade, wants to lean in closer, to ask her what she’s doing after the jam ends.
She pulls a crumpled polaroid out of her jeans pocket, slides it across the sticky table to him. It’s a 1964 Smith Corona Sterling, the exact model he’d ranted about wanting to find for 10 years when she’d dropped off the Royal, the one he’d only ever seen in vintage collector’s catalogs and old family photos of his grandpa’s office. “Found it at a yard sale this morning,” she says, and she touches his wrist when she speaks, her fingers calloused from turning book pages and pulling weeds, warm against his sun-warmed skin. “I was going to bring it to your shop tomorrow, but I figured I’d ask if you wanted to come back to my place tonight to look at it. I’ve got cold sweet tea in the fridge, and my tabby cat’s a big fan of bluegrass, so he’ll probably love you.” He glances over at the mayor, who’s now pretending to listen to the guy next to him but is still sneaking glances their way. He thinks about the months he’s spent biting his tongue, about the Royal typewriter sitting on his workbench waiting for her, about the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs. “Yeah,” he says, and he doesn’t even care that the mayor sees him smile at her. “That sounds great.”
The jam wraps up 20 minutes later, and they walk to her place, the gravel of the side road crunching under their boots, crickets chirping loud in the oak trees lining the street. The air has cooled off now that the sun’s dipped below the Blue Ridge Mountains, and when she slips her hand into his halfway there, his calloused fingers, nicked from decades of prying stuck typewriter keys and tightening tiny silver screws, fit perfectly in hers. Her place is a tiny clapboard cottage with a porch strung with warm fairy lights, the screen door creaking when she pushes it open. She pulls the Smith Corona out from where it’s sitting on the porch bench, its mint green paint chipped but intact, all the keys still present and free of rust. He runs his index finger over the worn space bar, his chest tight with a warmth he hasn’t felt in years, and when he looks up she’s leaning in, her hand resting light on his elbow. He kisses her, tastes peach iced tea and mint gum, and her tabby cat rubs against his ankle, purring loud enough to cut through the sound of the crickets in the front yard.
