Elias Voss, 53, has built custom fishing rods for Oregon coast anglers for 17 years, working out of a converted two-car garage tucked between a crab processing plant and a weathered mobile home park. He’s stubborn to a fault—hasn’t let anyone set foot in his home kitchen outside of his older sister since his wife left him for a commercial fisherman eight years prior, still refuses to answer texts from friends asking him to join group fishing trips, writes off all small town community events as nothing but gossip sessions for bored retirees. The only reason he showed up to the fire department’s summer beer garden fundraiser was twofold: the local microbrewery he’s obsessed with was tapping a limited-edition hazy IPA only available at the event, and he owed the fire crew for stopping a spring brush fire 20 yards from his shop before it could burn up 12 half-finished rods he’d spent three months building for tournament anglers.
He’s halfway through his second beer, leaning against a splintered pine picnic table and watching a group of teen boys compete in a cornhole tournament, when he spots her. Mara Ruiz, his ex-wife’s first cousin, the woman he’d spent a decade avoiding at every family cookout and holiday dinner because he’d once caught himself staring at her mouth while she laughed at a bad joke he told, and the guilt had made him leave the event early with a fake headache. She’s behind the baked goods stall, wiping flour from her faded denim overalls, her dark hair streaked with sun from long hours working in her own woodworking shop, where she builds custom cutting boards and charcuterie platters for coastal tourists. A smudge of flour sits high on her left cheek, and when she looks up and catches him staring, she waves, sharp and bright, no hesitation.
He tries to pretend he didn’t see her, turning to face the beer taps, but he can hear her laugh over the hum of the crowd, the clink of pint glasses, the crackle of the food truck’s deep fryer. He’s known for years she’s off limits, that dating the ex’s cousin is the kind of small town drama that would be talked about at the diner counter for six months straight, that his ex would call him every name under the sun if she found out. But he can’t stop thinking about the blackberry pies she used to bring to those old cookouts, crust flaky, sweetened with just enough lemon zest to cut the fruit’s tartness, so he walks over, hands shoved in the pockets of his oil-stained work jeans.
“Figured I’d find you here,” she says, leaning her hip against the edge of the folding table holding pies and cookies and brownies. Her arms are toned, dotted with tiny woodworking scars, and when she holds up a whole blackberry pie, wrapped in plastic, the scent hits him immediately, sharp and sweet, exactly how he remembers. “I set this one aside for you. Knew you’d show up eventually, even if you act like you hate every person in this town.”
He snorts, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. “I don’t hate everyone. Just most people.” When he hands her a twenty dollar bill, their fingers brush, hers calloused from sanding oak and maple, his rough from hours wrapping rod guides with silk thread. The contact zings up his arm, and he freezes for half a second before he pulls his hand back, suddenly very aware that no one has touched him that casually, that intentionally, in longer than he can remember. She holds his gaze, dark eyes glinting, and doesn’t break eye contact when she tucks the bill into the front pocket of her overalls.
They talk for 40 minutes, him leaning against the edge of her stall, her stepping out from behind it to stand close enough that he can smell the coconut shampoo in her hair, the vanilla extract on her wrists. She tells him she split up with her long-term boyfriend three years prior, that she’s been spending weekends camping alone in the national forest, that she’s been wanting to learn how to fish for chinook but no one will teach her without hitting on her. He tells her about the brush fire, about the client who flew in from New York last month to pick up a custom rod he’d ordered two years prior, about how he still sleeps on the couch because the king size bed in his bedroom feels too big. He doesn’t mean to say that last part, it slips out before he can stop it, and she smiles, soft, not pitying, the way people usually smile when he mentions being alone.
By 8 PM, the crowd is thinning out, the sun dipping below the ocean, painting the sky pink and orange. She helps the other volunteers fold up the tables, then walks back over to him, holding the pie in one hand and a paper bag with two plastic forks in the other. “You got any bourbon at your shop?” she asks, tilting her head, and he can tell she’s nervous, even if she’s trying to hide it. “I don’t feel like going home yet. We could eat this on your porch, if you want. No pressure.”
He hesitates for two full seconds, the voice in his head screaming that this is a bad idea, that everyone will talk, that his ex will cause a scene, that he’s going to get hurt again. But then she shifts her weight, the toe of her work boot brushing his, and he nods. “Yeah. Got a bottle of Bulleit on the shelf behind the register.”
They walk the three blocks to his shop in silence, the sound of waves crashing in the distance, the cool ocean wind biting at his arms. He unlocks the front door, grabs the bourbon and two chipped mason jars, then leads her out to the small wooden porch he built himself two years prior. They sit on the steps, split the pie, pass the bourbon back and forth, no awkward silences, no forced small talk. When she leans over to wipe a crumb of pie crust from his chin, her thumb lingering on the edge of his jaw for three slow beats, he doesn’t pull away. He lifts his hand, wraps his fingers around her wrist, and pulls her closer, the pie plate sitting forgotten between them on the step.
