Rafe Esposito is 59, makes his living restoring antique clocks out of a creaky 112-year-old workshop on the edge of Benton Harbor, Michigan. His biggest flaw is he holds grudges longer than he’s ever kept a houseplant alive, and for six months that grudge was laser-focused on 38-year-old mayor Lena Voss, the Chicago transplant who pushed through a zoning ordinance that would’ve bulldozed his shop for luxury apartments. He’d showed up to three public hearings red-faced, slamming photos of 18th-century pocket watches on the podium, calling her a “costume small-town politician” who cared only about campaign donations. He’d fully expected to pack up his workbench by Thanksgiving.
He’d only agreed to man the local historical society’s booth at the annual fall harvest festival that afternoon because his 82-year-old mom guilt-tripped him over meatloaf the night before, saying no one else could explain the old lighthouse clock on display. He stuck around longer than planned, sipping spiked cider from a plastic cup, watching kids chase each other through hay bales, and by 9 p.m. he ducked into The Rusty Anchor, the dive bar off Main Street, for a neat bourbon before driving the three miles back to his quiet, empty house.
The bar smelled like fried cheese curds and decades of spilled beer, Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” humming low from the jukebox in the corner. He’d just lifted his glass to his lips when someone slid onto the stool next to him, their bare knee brushing the frayed hem of his denim jeans when they shifted. He glanced over, ready to grumble about personal space, and froze. It was Lena. She still wore the forest green blazer she’d had on at the public hearings, but her sensible pumps were gone, bare feet propped on the brass footrail between their stools, chipped dark red polish on her toenails. Her dark hair was pulled loose from the low bun he always saw it in, strands falling around her freckled cheeks, and she smelled like pine and vanilla, like she’d walked through the town’s apple orchard all day.
She held eye contact for three full seconds, then smirked, nodding at his bourbon. “You look like you need a second one. On me.” Rafe’s jaw tightened. He almost told her to go to hell, but the bartender slid the shot over before he could speak, and her hand brushed his when she pushed it across the bar toward him. Her knuckles were soft, a faint scar running across the back of her left hand, and he felt a jolt run up his arm, the kind he hadn’t felt since his wife left him for a SaaS startup founder 12 years prior. He’d forgotten what it felt like to touch someone who wasn’t a relative or a client dropping off a broken clock.
“I owe you an apology,” she said before he could snap at her. She leaned her elbow on the bar, her shoulder brushing his bicep through his flannel shirt, and he didn’t pull away. “That zoning ordinance was garbage. I didn’t read the fine print before co-sponsoring it, and when I realized your shop was on the chopping block? I pulled strings to get it a historic designation this afternoon. Unanimous vote. You’re safe.”
Rafe blinked. He’d spent six months drafting angry emails, making signs, yelling at her on public access TV, and she’d fixed it without him even asking. He stared at her, the neon beer sign behind the bar casting pink light across her face, and he realized he’d never actually looked at her before, not really. She had a tiny scar above her left eyebrow, crinkles at the corner of her eyes when she smiled, and she laughed at the dumb joke he made about the festival’s pumpkin carving contest, where a kid had carved a middle finger into a 20-pound gourd and won first place.
She told him she’d walked past his workshop a dozen times with her rescue pitbull Mabel, that she’d stared at the 1890s grandfather clock in his front window for five minutes once, because it looked exactly like the one her grandma had when she was a kid. She said she’d been too intimidated to knock, because she’d heard he hated her guts. He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he didn’t recognize, and admitted he had, until 10 minutes prior.
The bar emptied out around them, the bartender wiping down the counter like he was waiting for them to leave, and she leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear, her hand resting on his forearm for a beat longer than necessary. “I don’t feel like going back to my empty house tonight,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear. “I’ve got that grandma’s mantle clock in the back of my truck. It’s been broken for 10 years. You wanna show me your workshop, maybe take a look at it?”
Rafe hesitated for half a second. He’d spent 12 years keeping people out, living by the ticking of a hundred clocks, his schedule precise down to the minute, no room for surprises or messy, unplanned things. But she was looking up at him, her dark eyes bright, and he could feel the heat of her hand through his flannel, and he nodded. He paid their tab, slipping a $20 tip to the bartender who winked at him as they left.
The air outside was crisp, sharp with the smell of burning leaves and ripe apples, orange and red maple leaves crunching under their feet as they walked to his beat-up 2007 Ford F-150 parked down the block. She laced her fingers through his, her small hand fitting perfectly in his calloused, grease-stained one, and he didn’t even reach for his pocket to check his watch to see what time it was, for the first time in 12 years.
