Elroy Voss, 52, ran a one-man vintage motorcycle restoration shop outside Knoxville, and his most consistent personality flaw was holding grudges longer than he held onto most of the bikes he fixed. He’d spent 15 years seething at Jimmie Cole, his ex-wife’s cousin, over a stolen 1972 CB750 carburetor he’d sworn Jimmie swiped from his shop back in 2008, even when everyone told him he was being ridiculous. He’d skipped family cookouts, local bike meets, even a mutual friend’s funeral just to avoid running into the guy, until the August 2023 Tennessee Valley Vintage Bike Show, where he’d entered the fully restored CB750 he’d spent two years building, and couldn’t bear to miss the $1,000 first prize.
The air smelled like fried catfish from the food truck at the edge of the beer garden, pine drifting down from the Smoky Mountains, and burnt two-stroke exhaust hanging thick enough to taste if you stood too close to the entrance. Elroy leaned against the gas tank of his CB750, sipping a hazy IPA from a plastic cup, when he spotted Jimmie walking toward him across the grass, a grin on his face that made Elroy’s jaw tight. He turned fast to duck behind a nearby picnic table, and his elbow knocked the cup right out of his own hand, spilling half the beer down the front of the woman standing next to him.
She yelped, more surprised than angry, as cold foam soaked through her thin white linen button-down, sticking the fabric to the curve of her ribs. Elroy fumbled for a stack of napkins on the table, his knuckles brushing her side when he reached to pat at the mess, and she flinched, then laughed, a low, rough sound that matched the rumble of the idling bikes around them. “Easy there, cowboy,” she said, swiping a napkin from his hand. “I’m not gonna sue you for spillage. Though I will ask you buy me a replacement drink.”
Elroy’s face went hot, half from embarrassment, half from the sharp jolt of attraction he felt when he met her eyes—hazel, flecked with gold, lined at the corners from laughing in the sun, a streak of gray running through the auburn hair she had pulled back in a loose braid. He was about to agree, when he saw Jimmie stop right next to them, clap the woman on the shoulder, and Elroy’s stomach dropped. He’d assumed she was Jimmie’s new girlfriend, the one he’d heard everyone talking about, the one who’d moved back to town from Portland a few months prior. He was already gearing up to mumble an apology and bolt, when she rolled her eyes and swatted Jimmie’s hand away. “Quit manhandling me, you oaf,” she said. “This is the guy you’ve been complaining about for a year, right? The one who thinks you stole his carburetor?”
Elroy blinked. Jimmie scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “This is Lila. My half-sister. The kid who actually took that carb? The 16 year old who worked for you back in 2008? He moved to Alaska, got a job on a fishing boat, sent me a Venmo for $400 last month along with a long apology note. Been trying to find you to give it to you, but you keep ducking me.” He pulled a crumpled envelope from his pocket, with the carburetor wrapped in bubble wrap inside, and Elroy stood there, stunned, the 15 years of anger he’d carried feeling suddenly stupid, heavy as a lead battery in his chest.
Jimmie left them to go grab a beer of his own, and Elroy and Lila sat down at the picnic table, the bench close enough that their thighs brushed when either of them shifted. She told him she’d been restoring a 1968 Triumph Bonneville in her garage for six months, kept running into the same carb tuning issue, had been following his Instagram for months after seeing a photo of his CB750, had been bugging Jimmie to introduce them. She leaned in when he explained how to adjust the float level, her knee pressing firm against his under the table, the smell of coconut sunscreen and lemon seltzer drifting off her, and Elroy found himself leaning in too, forgetting about the grudge, forgetting about the bike show prizes, forgetting everything but the way her chipped black nail polish matched the smudges on his own fingers from working on engines that morning.
By the time the awards were announced, Elroy had won first place, but he barely noticed. He walked Lila to her beat-up Ford Ranger parked at the edge of the lot, and she leaned against the door, twisting a strand of loose hair behind her ear, and asked if he’d be open to coming by her place the next morning to take a look at her Triumph. He said yes before she finished the question, and she laughed, pulling a Sharpie out of her pocket to scrawl her number on a crumpled napkin, pressing it into his palm. Before he could say anything else, she leaned in, kissed him quick on the corner of his mouth, the taste of peach hard seltzer lingering on his skin, and climbed into the truck.
Elroy stood there for five minutes after she drove off, holding the old carburetor in one hand, the napkin with her number in the other, watching the taillights fade down the two-lane road.
