Royce Hargrove, 53, vintage typewriter restorer based out of a damp Portland garage, had driven 18 hours for the western Kansas estate sale, and the second he’d lifted the 1952 Hermes 3000 out of its dusty attic case, he’d known the trip was worth every gas station burrito and cramp in his left calf. He’d planned to grab a single draft beer at the town’s only dive bar before crashing at the motor lodge down the street, then hit the road at 6 a.m. sharp, no detours, no small talk. That plan lasted exactly 12 minutes after he slid onto the sticky vinyl bar stool, the hem of his frayed flannel shirt catching on a loose screw under the counter.
The bar smelled like fried dill pickles and well bourbon, the jukebox spitting out Merle Haggard deep cuts so old most of the few patrons in the room didn’t bother singing along. He was twisting the cold beer bottle between his calloused, ink-stained fingers, already mentally mapping the minor repair he’d do on the Hermes when he got home, when she slid onto the stool two inches from his left side, close enough that the wool of her cream cardigan brushed his elbow. He recognized her immediately: she was the estate owner’s granddaughter, the one who’d handed him the attic key that morning, who’d teased him for blowing 10 minutes dusting off the typewriter instead of browsing the pricier midcentury furniture lots.
Her name was Maeve, she told him, 47, high school English teacher in the town, still paying off her ex-husband’s dumb farm equipment loan, stuck settling her grandma’s estate on weekends because her little brother lived three states away and refused to help. She ordered a whiskey sour, and when she reached across him to grab the napkin the bartender set down, her forearm brushed his, the cool silver of her thin constellation charm bracelet pressing into his skin for half a second before she pulled back, her dark eyes holding his like she’d done it on purpose. Royce’s throat went dry. He hadn’t so much as flirted with anyone in three years, not since the last date he’d gone on had complained for 45 minutes about how his workshop smelled like old ink and machine oil. His flaw, he knew, was that he’d turned closed-off into a personality trait after his divorce 12 years prior, convinced any connection meant letting someone mess up the neat, boring, low-stakes routine he’d built for himself.
She asked him about the typewriter, and he rambled longer than he meant to, telling her about the way the keys had the perfect weight, how they didn’t make that tinny clack the newer vintage models did, how he’d restored three of the same make for clients on the coast who swore the machines made their writing feel more intentional. She laughed when he joked that the permanent ink stains on his hands were his version of a tattoo, and when she leaned in to get a closer look at the splotch of jet black ink on his knuckle, her wavy auburn hair brushed his jaw, the lavender scent of her shampoo cutting through the bar’s grease and stale beer smell. He knew it was a bad idea. Everyone in the bar was glancing their way, he’d heard the group of retired farmers at the next table mutter about Maeve’s ex being the county sheriff, that he didn’t take kindly to out-of-town guys hitting on her when he was on patrol. The quiet thrill of that taboo hummed under his skin, warring with the voice in his head that screamed to finish his beer, pay his tab, and run back to his empty motor lodge room before he caused trouble for either of them.
She finished her whiskey sour, wiping a drop of sugar from her lower lip with her thumb, and told him she had three boxes of her grandma’s old office stuff in her guest room that she couldn’t identify, that she’d give him half the haul for free if he’d come take a look tonight instead of waiting until morning. Royce hesitated for 10 full seconds, the voice in his head listing every reason this was stupid: he had 18 hours of driving ahead of him tomorrow, he didn’t do one night stands, he didn’t want to get his tires slashed by a petty small-town cop with a grudge. Then he looked at her, at the way she was biting back a smile like she knew he was overthinking it, at the tiny smudge of attic dust still on her wrist from carrying boxes that morning, and he nodded.
He paid both their tabs, slipping his scuffed leather jacket on over his flannel, and she led him out the side door of the bar, the cold April rain misting down on their faces. The parking lot was mostly empty, the streetlights glowing orange through the thin fog, and when he held the passenger door of his beat-up Ford F-150 open for her, she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm for half a step, her fingers pressing gently into the muscle there.
He climbed into the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition, and when she leaned over to adjust the heater vent so it blew on her cold hands, her knee rested against his, warm through their jeans, and he didn’t move away.
