Russell “Rust” Hajek, 62, spent 38 years rebuilding fire truck engines for the Detroit Fire Department before his wife of 32 years died and he hauled his toolbox and half-finished model truck collection to a drafty cabin outside Asheville, North Carolina. His biggest flaw, if you asked the few people who knew him, was that he’d sealed himself off so tight he couldn’t even accept a homemade peach pie from his next door neighbor without acting like she’d handed him a live grenade. He’d only agreed to set up a table at the small town summer street fair because that same neighbor had badgered him for three weeks straight, saying the craft tent attendees would lose their minds over his painstakingly accurate 1:12 scale pumper trucks.
He’d been there 47 minutes when she leaned over the rough pine rail separating his table from the food bank donation booth next door, her sun-warmed forearm brushing his as she grabbed a can of kidney beans a tourist had set on the wrong side. “You look like you’re one bored sigh away from packing up and peeling out in that rusted F-150 of yours,” she said, her voice low and rough like she spent half her days yelling over crowd noise. Her name tag said Marnie, 58, and she had a smudge of chocolate on her left cheek, silver hoop earrings that caught the golden late afternoon sun, and laugh lines fanning out from hazel eyes that didn’t dart away when he met her gaze.
He grunted in response, wiping his calloused palms on the thighs of his worn work jeans, and told himself he was being an idiot for even noticing how the freckles on her shoulders dotted the skin peeking out of her faded plaid flannel shirt, rolled up to the elbows. He’d promised himself after Linda died he wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t let anyone else get close, that opening up again was disrespectful, that he was too old for stupid flirty conversations at street fairs. The air smelled like fried dough and cut clover, the distant hum of the ferris wheel mixing with the screams of kids chasing each other with water guns, and every few minutes she’d lean over again to grab a stray donation, her dented silver chain bracelet brushing his wrist when they both reached for a dropped jar of dill pickles a kid had knocked off the table.
She asked about his model trucks, pointing out the tiny brass hoses and custom painted decals, and he was shocked when she mentioned her dad had been a fire captain in Charlotte, so she knew exactly what each tiny part was for. He found himself talking for 20 minutes straight, telling her about the time he’d rebuilt a 1978 pumper that had been totaled in a warehouse fire, and she didn’t check her phone or glance over his shoulder for someone more interesting to talk to. The sky turned dark gray fast, fat raindrops starting to splatter on the tabletop before anyone could react, and the crowd scattered like roaches when the porch light flips on.
One of his models, the 1978 pumper he’d spent six months on, teetered off the edge of the table when a kid ran past and slammed into the leg. She lunged before he could, catching it mid-fall, and the momentum sent her crashing into his chest, her hand fisted in the front of his work shirt, his arm wrapping around her waist to steady her. He could smell coconut shampoo and rain on her hair, her cheek pressed to his shoulder for two full seconds before she pulled back, grinning, rain dripping off the ends of her wavy brown hair. “Told you that one was too nice to leave unguarded,” she said, wiping a raindrop off the model’s windshield with her thumb.
They packed up their booths fast, both soaked through to the skin, and when she asked if he wanted to grab a beer at the dive bar two blocks over to wait out the rain, he didn’t hesitate. It surprised him, how easy the yes came out, no internal argument about going home alone to his frozen meatloaf dinner and 90s Tigers reruns. They walked slow, splashing through puddles, her shoulder bumping his every few steps, and he didn’t shift away. He held the screen door open for her, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel like he was leaving a part of himself behind when he stepped inside after her.
