Roland Voss, 62, spent 35 years as a forensic accountant digging through spreadsheets for hidden embezzlement trails, so it’s not surprising his default setting is overthinking every small, unplanned detail. Since his wife Lois passed eight years prior, he’s built a routine so rigid he could set his 1968 Rolex by it: up at 6 a.m. to feed the feral cats behind his garage, three hours of restoring vintage wooden fishing lures in his basement workshop every afternoon, fried catfish and a draft Pabst at the Maple Street Beer Garden every Friday at 7 sharp. He hasn’t so much as flirted with a woman since Lois started chemo, convinced any deviation from the script he’d written for his widowhood would be a betrayal, or worse, an embarrassing mess he couldn’t cross-reference and fix.
The last Friday of August, the beer garden was packed wall to wall for the annual end-of-summer corn roast, the same week the town had voted 68% to 32% to keep the lot from being bulldozed for a chain pharmacy. Roland got his usual catfish, spotted the only empty spot on the back bench next to Elara Mendez, and froze. Elara, 58, ran the herbal apothecary on Main Street, had led the six-month campaign to save the beer garden, and was also the ex-wife of Jake Carter, his high school rival who’d tripped him on the 50-yard line during their senior homecoming game, costing their team the win. Roland had avoided talking to her for months, even when she’d waved at him from the farmers’ market booth, convinced small town gossip would latch onto the two of them so fast it’d make the town Facebook group explode.
The guy behind him holding a plate of corn cleared his throat, and Roland hurried to sit before he lost the spot. Elara’s frayed denim jacket brushed his bare forearm, where the flannel sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he flinched like he’d touched a hot grill. She smelled like lavender and cedar shavings, the kind of scent that sticks to your clothes long after you leave a room, and the bluegrass band on the small stage was playing a slow, twangy cover of John Prine’s “Angel From Montgomery” that made the air feel soft around the edges.
“Saw you drop your ballot in the box last week,” she said, twisting the cap off a black cherry hard seltzer, her knee brushing his under the table when she shifted. “You’re the only guy on the west side of town who didn’t bitch about losing a CVS drive-thru.”
Roland fumbled for his napkin, his face going hot. He’d practiced small talk with the cashiers at the grocery store, but this felt different, like every word he said was being audited. “CVS sells catfish that tastes like frozen cardboard,” he said, and she laughed, a low, throaty sound that made the back of his neck tingle.
She reached across the table for the jar of hot sauce at the same time he did, their knuckles brushing, and she didn’t pull away right away. She held eye contact for three beats longer than casual, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a smirk, and Roland’s chest felt tight, like he was 17 again and trying to ask Lois to prom. “You don’t have to act like I’m contagious, Roland,” she said, running a finger along the rim of her seltzer can. “Unless you’re scared Jake’s gonna come trip you again. He lives in Florida now, for the record. Plays pickleball with a bunch of retired realtors. Not exactly intimidating.”
He blinked, surprised she remembered the homecoming game. He’d never told anyone about that, other than Lois. “You knew about that?”
“Everyone knew about that,” she said, popping a piece of buttered corn in her mouth. “Jake bragged about it for a year. I told him he was a petty asshole for it, which is one of the many reasons we got divorced 12 years ago.” She nodded at the fishing lure keychain hanging off his belt loop, the one he’d carved himself, shaped like a smallmouth bass. “You make those, right? I saw your booth at the craft fair last spring. The guy with the beard who bought three said they’re the best lures he’s ever used.”
Roland couldn’t remember the last time someone had paid attention to something he cared about that wasn’t related to spreadsheets or Lois’s old garden. He kept talking, no overthinking, no running the sentence through a fact check in his head first, telling her about the 1950s Heddon lure he was restoring, the one he’d found at a garage sale for 2 dollars. The sun set pink and orange over the oak trees, crickets started chirping in the grass along the fence, and a group of kids ran past chasing fireflies, their laughter bouncing off the picnic tables.
When the band finished their set, Elara stood up, slinging her jacket over her shoulder, and nodded toward the trailhead at the end of the parking lot. “I’m heading up to the river overlook to watch the meteor shower tonight,” she said, picking up a cooler she’d stashed under the bench. “Got a wool blanket and a jug of homemade peach cider. You wanna come?”
The voice in Roland’s head screamed no, that it was too fast, that people would talk, that he’d mess it up somehow, that he was betraying Lois by even considering it. But then he looked at Elara, the golden string lights from the beer garden catching the silver streaks in her dark hair, and he realized he was tired of living his life like it was a fraud case he had to pick apart for mistakes. He stood up, grabbing his half-empty beer, and nodded.
The trail up to the overlook was short, lined with pine trees, and the grass was dewy under his work boots when they got to the top. She spread the thick wool blanket out on the ground, and they sat side by side, the cider cold and sweet when she passed him the jug. The first meteor streaked across the sky 10 minutes later, bright white, and she leaned into his side, her shoulder warm against his, and he didn’t pull away.
He’d spent so many years counting every penny, cross-referencing every fact, avoiding any risk that didn’t have a clear, predictable outcome that he’d forgotten what it felt like to be spontaneous, to not plan every second of his day down to the minute. When the next meteor blazes across the sky, he laces his calloused, lure-scratched fingers through hers, and doesn’t overthink a single thing.
