Ronan O’Malley, 53, spent three decades teaching high school woodshop before he took early retirement when his wife left him for a real estate agent who drove a Tesla with a “Save the Bees” bumper sticker. He’d spent the last three years holed up in his garage workshop, turning scrap walnut and maple into thick, juice-grooved cutting boards he sold every Saturday at the Grand Haven farmers market. His big flaw: he’d convinced himself every stranger who struck up a conversation beyond asking for a price was after something free – a custom engraved board for a silent auction, a quick fix for a wobbly chair, a free lesson on how to use a planer. He kept interactions tight, polite, no extra small talk.
The last Saturday of the 2024 market season, rain spitting heavy enough to make the paper price tags on his boards curl at the edges, most vendors had packed up an hour early. Ronan was wiping down the edges of a live-edge cherry board, the scent of lemon oil mixing with damp grass and fried onion fumes from the nearby brat stand, when Elara rounded the corner of the next booth. He’d seen her every Saturday for the last month, the new part-time adult programming director at the local library, usually in a frumpy cardigan and wire-rimmed glasses, running a table for summer reading sign-ups. Today she’d ditched the cardigan, was wearing a faded 1977 Fleetwood Mac tour t-shirt that hung loose off one shoulder, cutoff denim shorts that showed freckles running up her calves to her thighs, white canvas sneakers caked in mud from the wet field.
He tensed first, already reaching for the pre-written donation receipt he kept in his apron pocket. “I dropped off that engraved board for the library fundraiser last Tuesday,” he said, no inflection, didn’t meet her eyes.
She laughed, a low, throaty sound that cut through the patter of rain on his pop-up canopy. She was holding two cold IPA cans in one hand, condensation dripping down her wrist. “I know. I was the one who signed for it. You did a killer job on the oak tree engraving, by the way. The library director already tried to steal it for her kitchen.”
She stepped under the edge of the canopy to get out of the rain, close enough that Ronan could smell peach iced tea on her breath, lavender hand cream mixed with the faint scent of old paper that clung to her clothes. When she held out one of the IPAs to him, her sleeve brushed his forearm, the soft cotton catching on the hair there, and their fingers brushed as he took the can. He noticed the thick callus on her right index finger, the same kind he had on his thumb from holding chisels, except hers was from turning thousands of book pages. He’d never thought about librarians having calluses before.
He took a sip of the beer, cold and hoppy, better than the cheap lager he kept in his garage fridge. “You don’t have to bring me beer to ask for another favor,” he said, still guarded, but he looked up at her this time, noticed her eyes were hazel, flecked with green, and she was biting the corner of her lower lip like she was trying not to laugh at him.
“Who said I want a favor?” she said, leaning her hip against the edge of his booth, their shoulders now pressed together, the warmth of her arm seeping through his flannel shirt. “I’ve been coming by your booth every week because you talk about wood grain like it’s the most interesting thing on the planet. Most guys my age just want to rant about their ex wives or their golf scores. Also, I noticed you never stay for the end-of-market cookout the vendors do. Figured you’d rather have a beer first before you run off to your workshop.”
Ronan’s chest felt tight, the way it used to when he was 16 and asking a girl to prom. He’d spent three years telling himself he was better off alone, that dating at 53 was a minefield of unmet expectations and hidden agendas, that he was too set in his ways to make room for someone else. He’d been disgusted with himself all month for noticing when she walked by, for memorizing the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was concentrating, for going out of his way to set aside the curly maple boards he thought she’d like, just in case she stopped by. He’d told himself it was stupid, that he was setting himself up to get played again.
“I don’t do cookouts,” he said, but his voice was softer now, no edge to it. “Too many people asking for free stuff.”
She nodded, like she understood. “Fair. I don’t do library board meetings, for the exact same reason. Everyone wants a free event, free books, free coffee, no one wants to pay for any of it. I was gonna head to that taco truck on Harbor Drive after this, though. They do mango habanero shrimp tacos that’ll make you forget every annoying person who ever asked you for a free cutting board. You wanna come? No strings attached. I’ll even pay for the tacos.”
Ronan stared at her for a second, the rain picking up so hard it was drumming so loud on the canopy he could barely hear the traffic on the nearby highway. He thought about going home alone, microwaving a frozen burrito, sanding the same board for three hours while he listened to old Tom Petty records. He thought about the callus on her finger, the way she’d smiled when she said she liked listening to him talk about wood.
“Okay,” he said, before he could talk himself out of it. “I got a cooler of cherry tomatoes in my truck I was gonna drop off at the food bank first, though. Gotta do that before they go bad.”
She grinned, bright enough that it felt like the sun came out even though the sky was still dark gray. When they stepped out from under the canopy, the rain came down hard enough to soak through his flannel in 10 seconds, and she slipped on a patch of wet clover, grabbing his bicep to steady herself. He wrapped his hand around hers, her palm soft except for that callus on her finger, and she didn’t pull away, just laced her fingers through his as they walked toward the parking lot, her shoulder bumping his with every step.
