Ron Voss, 62, retired Colorado wildlife biologist, had occupied the same scuffed corner stool at the Boulder Creek Taproom every Wednesday trivia night for six years straight. He showed up 15 minutes early, ordered the same pine-infused brown ale, kept his beat-up Carhartt hat pulled low, and only spoke when his usual trivia partner, a high school biology teacher, showed up to bounce answers off him. His flaw was a stubborn, self-imposed solitude—he’d shut down almost all casual connection after his wife Ellen died of ovarian cancer seven years prior, convinced any attempt to move on was a betrayal of the 31 years they’d spent together chasing bighorn sheep herds across the Rockies.
This Wednesday, his partner texted ten minutes before trivia started to say his kid had a fever. The host, a kid in his 20s with a blue mohawk, scanned the crowded room, spotted the empty seat next to Ron, and herded a woman over before Ron could protest. She slid onto the stool, her heavy wool coat sleeve brushing his bare forearm, and the scent of pine and vanilla candle wax hit him first. He glanced up, and his throat went tight. It was Lila, Ellen’s younger cousin, the one he’d only met once, at their wedding 38 years prior, when she’d been a 20-year-old ranch hand who’d fallen off a horse mid-reception and split her knuckle open on a fence post. He’d helped her wrap it, and she’d laughed so hard at his terrible joke about horse stubbornness that she’d snort-laughed into a napkin. He’d avoided her on purpose after Ellen died, too ashamed of the stupid, unshakable spark he’d felt that day, like he was cheating on a wife who wasn’t even gone yet.
She held his gaze for two full beats longer than polite, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, and tapped the brim of his hat. “You still wear that thing even when you’re not tracking rams up at 10,000 feet? I’d have figured the brim would have rotted off by now.” Ron stared, too stunned to lie about who he was. He’d walked past her vintage bookstore on Main Street a hundred times, always crossed the street before he got close, scared he’d run into her and have to explain why he’d never popped in to say hi.
The first round of trivia started before he could fumble out an excuse to leave. She leaned in to whisper an answer about 1990s Western films, her silver-streaked auburn hair brushing his cheek, and he forgot what the question was. She beat him to the answer about bighorn sheep mating seasons, of all things, and nudged his shoulder when he gaped at her. “Ellen used to send me all your field notes. I read every single one. You write better than most of the nature authors I stock in the shop.” The guilt coiled tight in his chest, hot and sharp, but he found himself laughing anyway when she made a joke about the bar’s terrible pretzels tasting like compressed cardboard. Every accidental touch—her knee brushing his under the bar, her cold fingers brushing his when she passed him a shot of the house peach whiskey, her hand resting on his forearm for three full seconds when she cheered after they aced the final wildlife round—made that coil loosen just a little, even as he told himself he was a terrible person for even noticing.
They won by three points, split the $50 bar tab prize, and when she asked if he wanted to walk her back to the shop, two blocks over, he said yes before he could talk himself out of it. The sidewalk was glazed with a thin sheet of ice from the first fall cold snap, the streetlights bleeding orange over the slush, and she slipped halfway there, her boot skidding out from under her. He reached out automatically, wrapping his hand around her waist to steady her, and she didn’t pull away. She turned to face him, her breath fogging in the cold, and her voice was soft, no trace of teasing, when she spoke. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 20, Ron. I know it’s messy. I know you feel guilty. But I’m not gonna apologize for waiting until you were ready to stop hiding.”
He didn’t say anything. He just lifted his free hand, brushed a strand of wind-tousled hair off her face, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, and she leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering shut for half a second. The guilt didn’t disappear, not entirely, but for the first time in seven years, it didn’t feel like the only thing weighing on his chest.
They walked the last half block slowly, his hand still resting light on her lower back, no one saying a word. She unlocked the front door to the bookstore, and the warm scent of old paper and cinnamon drifted out into the cold street. She stepped inside, held the door open for him, and nodded toward the back shelf. “I’ve got that first edition of Sigurd Olson’s memoir you mentioned at the wedding. Been holding onto it for you, just in case you ever stopped by.” He stepped over the threshold after her, his boots scuffing the worn wool welcome mat. The warm scent of old paper and cinnamon wrapped around him before the deadbolt snicked shut.
