Elias Voss, 59, makes his living restoring vintage travel trailers out of a cinder block shop behind his house in coastal Oregon, and he’s spent the last 12 years perfecting the art of avoiding small town social events. His only real flaw, if you ask his 22-year-old niece who crashes on his couch every other weekend, is that he’s convinced himself he likes being alone more than anything else. So when she shoves a lukewarm IPA in his hand and drags him to the annual summer food truck rally on Main Street, he’s already counting down the minutes until he can go back to his workbench, sanding the oak cabinets of a 1972 Airstream, no small talk required.
The asphalt sticks to the soles of his work boots, caked with pine resin and dust from the shop, and the air smells like fried dough, smoked brisket, and salt coming off the ocean three blocks away. A cover band on the makeshift stage slogs through a rough cover of *Folsom Prison Blues*, kids on scooters weave between the folding tables, and Elias leans against a stop sign, trying to make himself as small as possible, when he spots her. Maren Hale, who moved into the cottage next door eight months prior, who runs a herbal apothecary out of her front room, who he’s gone out of his way to avoid even making eye contact with, because the first time he saw her carrying a stack of potted lavender up her porch steps, his chest got tight enough he thought he was having a heart attack. She’s behind a folding wooden booth selling honey-lemon iced tea, sun catching the thick silver streak that runs through the left side of her dark hair, and she laughs so hard at a toddler who drops a cherry popsicle at her feet that her eyes crinkle shut.
He’s already turning to leave, ready to lie to his niece that he has a sudden plumbing emergency at the shop, when the girl yanks his arm hard enough to nearly dislocate his shoulder, dragging him straight for Maren’s booth. “I need iced tea, I’m dying,” she says, and Elias freezes a foot away from the counter, suddenly hyperaware of the grease stain on the front of his flannel and the fact he hasn’t showered since 7 a.m. that morning. Maren looks up, grins like she knew he’d show up eventually, and wipes her hands on the front of her linen overalls. “Elias. I’ve been meaning to knock on your door. I picked up a beat-up 1968 Scotty off Facebook Marketplace last month, the window frame’s rotted straight through, and I hear you’re the only guy within 50 miles who doesn’t charge more than the trailer’s worth to fix it.”
Her voice is low, rough from years of smoking, and when she reaches across the counter to pass him a paper cup of tea, their fingers brush. Her hands are calloused at the fingertips, dirt under the nails from gardening, and he smells lavender, the same scent that drifts over the fence between their houses at dusk. He flinches like he’s been burned, feels stupid for it, but Maren doesn’t pull away, just holds eye contact for three beats too long, the corner of her mouth tugging up. “I see you out in your shop most evenings,” she says, leaning her elbows on the counter, close enough he can see the freckles scattered across her cheekbones. “You work quiet. No loud radio, no yelling at parts when they don’t fit. It’s nice.”
Elias’s throat goes dry. Part of him is screaming to make an excuse, run home, lock the gate between their properties, go back to the routine he’s built that never lets him get hurt again. The other part of him wants to lean in closer, taste the honey she’s been stirring into the tea on her lips. He’s still standing there, frozen, when a kid on a scooter skids around the corner and slams full force into the back of his leg. He stumbles forward, catches himself on the edge of the booth, his calloused, resin-streaked hand landing an inch away from hers on the worn pine counter.
She doesn’t move her hand. Just smirks, tilts her head, and says, “You gonna ask me to get a taco with you after my shift ends in 10 minutes, or you gonna keep hovering like you have been for the last 20 minutes?” Elias blinks, then laughs, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t heard come out of his own mouth in years. He admits he’s been out of the dating game so long he forgot how to even ask a woman out for food, and she snorts, says she noticed, that he avoids everyone in town like they carry a contagious disease, but she likes that he fixes things instead of throwing them away when they break.
His niece rolls her eyes, grabs her iced tea, and bails to meet her friends, leaving him leaning against the booth while Maren packs up her leftover tea jars and cash box. When she’s done, she slides her hand into his, lacing their fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and he doesn’t flinch this time, just squeezes a little, surprised at how warm her hand is. They walk across the street to the al pastor taco truck, the sound of the band fading behind them, and the ocean breeze tangles her hair as they wait in line. When she leans in to steal a bite of his pineapple-topped taco, he doesn’t even pretend to mind.
