Elias Voss, 62, retired high school shop teacher and part-time vintage workbench restorer, hovered by the keg at the annual Maplewood block party, sweating through the collar of his faded Carhartt tee. He’d only showed up because the neighborhood association president had banged on his door three times that week, begging him to bring the batch of pickled okra he was famous for, and he’d caved to avoid the nuisance. Eight years out from his wife Linda’s death from ovarian cancer, he avoided crowds, avoided small talk, avoided any woman under 70 that looked like they might want more than a recipe for his okra. The guilt hit fast every time, sharp as a splinter from an untreated pine board, like even glancing at someone else was a betrayal of the 32 years they’d spent together.
The humidity hung thick enough to drink, sweet with the smell of grilled burgers and coconut sunscreen from the teens splashing in the kiddie pool at the end of the block. He popped the tab on his third IPA, cold enough to make his knuckles ache, when a golden retriever with a neon pink bandana trotted straight for his shoes, slobbering on his laces. “Mabel, get over here, you menace,” a voice called from behind him, warm and rough around the edges like she spent all day yelling over barking dogs. He turned to see his new next-door neighbor, Mara, wiping paint smudges off the thigh of her frayed cutoff jeans, the tattoo of a poodle on her left wrist peeking out from under a rubber work glove she’d forgotten to take off. He knew she ran a mobile dog grooming van, had seen her pull out at 7 a.m. most mornings, but they’d never exchanged more than a wave over the fence.
She reached for the same IPA he’d just grabbed from the cooler, their knuckles brushing for half a second. Her skin was warm, calloused at the fingertips from holding clippers all day, and Elias flinched like he’d touched a live wire. He mumbled an apology, already turning away, when she laughed, loud and unapologetic. “Don’t sweat it. I heard you restore old workbenches, by the way. I’ve got a beat up 1952 Craftsman in my garage I’ve been using to stack grooming supplies on, would pay good money to get it fixed up so I can actually use it for clipping nails and whatnot.” He hesitated, then nodded. He usually only took commercial jobs for hardware stores and woodworking shops, no residential work, no reason to be in a stranger’s house. But something about the way she was looking at him, no pity in her eyes, no mention of the widower who lived next door, made him say he’d stop by tomorrow afternoon.
The guy running the cornhole tournament cornered them five minutes later, insisted they pair up because the last two slots were open. Elias hated cornhole, hated how loud people got over a stupid bag toss, but he didn’t have the energy to argue. They stood side by side at their board, close enough that he could smell the peach seltzer on her breath when she leaned in to whisper a joke about the guy two boards over who was screaming at his 12-year-old partner for missing a shot. Her arm brushed his bicep when she pointed, and he didn’t flinch this time, just huffed a laugh, the first real one he’d had in months. When she tossed a bag straight through the hole on her first try, she pumped her fist so hard she elbowed him in the ribs, and he didn’t even mind. The guilt was still there, niggling at the back of his head, but it was quieter now, drowned out by the sound of her laugh and the cheer from the small crowd that had gathered to watch their match.
They won the tournament by three points, took home a crumpled $50 gift card to the local hardware store as the prize. Mara threw her arms around him before he could think to step back, her shoulder pressed to his chest, her hair tickling his chin. He froze for half a second, every muscle in his body tensed up waiting for the wave of self-loathing to hit, but it never did. Instead, he lifted a hand, rested it lightly on her back, just for a second, before she pulled away, grinning so wide her cheeks were pink. He realized then that Linda would have laughed at him, would have called him an idiot for shutting himself off from the world for so long, that loyalty didn’t mean he had to be miserable for the rest of his life.
The party wound down as the sun dipped below the oak trees, the kids herded into minivans by tired parents, the grill scraped clean of burger patties. They walked side by side down the block, Mabel trotting between them, the gift card folded into Elias’s jeans pocket. “You wanna come in for iced tea?” Mara asked when they reached her porch, twisting her key in the lock. “I got lemon in it, the good stuff. We can talk about the workbench, or not, whatever.” He paused for half a second, glancing at his own dark, empty house next door, then nodded. He stepped across her threshold, the scent of lemon and lavender laundry detergent wrapping around him, warm and bright and nothing like the stale, quiet air he’d gotten used to breathing alone.
