Rudy Galvan, 58, retired high school woodshop teacher, has spent the last three years holed up in his workshop outside Silverton, Oregon, only leaving for supply runs and the occasional trip to the hardware store. His biggest flaw: he’s convinced every neighbor who waves at him is just pitying the widower, so he’s turned down every dinner invite, every community event, every offer to set him up with someone “nice.” He only agreed to come to the annual Main Street street fair because his former star student, now 26, was running the youth woodworking booth and begged him to stop by, said the kids wanted to meet the guy who built the school’s picnic tables.
He’s been there 45 minutes, already checked out the booth, signed a few pine birdhouses the kids made, and is ready to hightail it back to his quiet property when he spots the pop-up beer garden strung with fairy lights outside the old downtown fire station. He figures one seltzer won’t hurt, so he leans against the cinder block wall, boots propped on a chipped concrete curb, the faint scent of pine still clinging to his flannel shirt cuffs, sawdust crusted in the treads of his work boots. The bluegrass band playing two blocks down warbles a Johnny Cash cover, the air smells like fried funnel cake and charcoal from the food truck grills, kids scream as they run past with neon glow sticks trailing behind them.
A woman reaches past him for a stack of napkins on the folding table next to his elbow, and her knuckles brush his. The contact is light, almost accidental, but he feels it zing up his arm. He looks over, and recognizes her immediately: Marnie Cole, 56, ex-wife of the former high school PE coach, the guy who used to steal his sandpaper and make jokes about woodshop being “a class for kids who couldn’t hack math.” Rudy had a stupid, useless crush on her for 12 years back when they were both married, had only ever spoken to her twice, once at a school holiday party and once at a district staff picnic, where she’d complimented the oak cutting board he’d donated for the silent auction. He’d gone home and felt guilty for three days after, like he’d cheated on his wife just for letting himself notice how her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes.
She smirks when she recognizes him, wipes a smudge of ketchup off the side of her paper plate of onion rings, and leans against the wall a foot away from him, close enough that he can smell the lavender perfume she’s wearing mixed with the grease from her food. “Thought you never left your workshop,” she says, and he blinks, surprised she even knows where he lives. She laughs, low and warm, when she sees the confused look on his face. “My niece took your class senior year. Said you still come in sometimes to fix the lathes. Also, everyone in town knows you’re a hermit now.”
He snorts, takes a sip of his seltzer, and lets his shoulder relax a little. He expects her to ask about his wife, like everyone does, but she doesn’t. She complains about the fair’s lemonade being too sweet, rants about how her ex still calls her once a month to ask her to do his taxes, teases him about the sawdust she spots in the gray hair at his temple. Every few minutes she leans in a little closer when a group of loud teens runs past, her shoulder brushing his bicep, and he doesn’t move away. He’s torn, half of him screaming that this is wrong, that everyone here is watching, that he’s betraying the wife he loved for 32 years by even enjoying talking to another woman, the other half buzzing like a live wire, giddy that someone’s talking to him like he’s a regular guy, not a walking sympathy card.
She holds up her left hand, wiggles her fingers to show the empty ring finger, and he’s suddenly hyper aware of his own left hand, the faint tan line where his wedding band used to sit, the one he tucked in a box on his nightstand six months prior. “Left him two years ago,” she says, like she can read his mind. “Told him I was gonna take woodworking classes finally, and he laughed so hard he snort-laughed beer out his nose. Said women don’t know how to use power tools. I packed my bags that night.”
Rudy laughs before he can stop himself. He mentions the three lathes he has in his workshop, the stack of rough-cut walnut he’s been saving for no particular project, and her eyes light up. She leans in even more, so close he can see the fleck of gold glitter from the fair face painting booth stuck to her jawline, her breath warm against his cheek when she speaks. “You gonna teach me?” she asks, and it’s not overtly flirty, not really, but there’s a tease in her tone, a question underneath the question that he’s been scared to answer for three years.
He hesitates for two full seconds, the old guilt bubbling up, then he nods. They exchange numbers, she types her contact info into his beat-up old iPhone, her fingers brushing his when she hands it back. He walks her to her beat-up Subaru parked two blocks over, the street lights turning on as the sun dips below the oak trees lining the road, the bluegrass band still playing in the distance. She squeezes his wrist before she opens the car door, her fingers lingering for a beat longer than necessary, and tells him she’ll be at his place at 10 a.m. next Saturday, and she’s bringing glazed donuts, no arguments.
He stands on the curb long after her taillights have vanished around the corner, his seltzer long gone warm in his hand, the spot on his wrist where she touched him still tingling. He’d spent three years convinced he’d never feel anything but empty again, convinced the best parts of his life were behind him, that wanting anything new was selfish, even wrong. He brushes the same spot on his forearm where her knuckles had brushed him earlier, the sawdust still clinging to the fabric of his flannel, and for the first time in months, he doesn’t feel guilty for looking forward to something.
