Kael Voss, 62, retired county surveyor, has a hard rule he never lingers at public events. He’s got a thin scar slicing across his left eyebrow from a 2007 fall down a rocky ravine while mapping a disputed property line outside Ashland, Oregon, keeps noise-canceling headphones slung around his neck even when he’s not using them to avoid unwanted small talk, and hasn’t so much as asked a woman out for coffee since his wife filed for divorce in 2005. He’s convinced he’s too gruff, too set in his routine of restoring vintage transit levels in his garage and smoking brisket on his back porch every Sunday, to make space for anyone else in his quiet, uncomplicated life. He only drives into town for the annual county fair because he promised the local historical society he’d drop off a 1952 Brunson compass he found tucked in the wall of an 1890s homestead he surveyed back in 2011, and he plans to be in and out in ten minutes max, no detours, no conversations longer than two sentences.
He’s halfway back to his dented 2008 Silverado when he rounds the corner of the county pie contest booth and slams straight into someone, sending a paper plate of peach cobbler flying, most of the sticky, cinnamon-dusted filling landing on the front of his faded Carhartt jacket. He’s halfway through a gruff, rehearsed apology, ready to pivot and speed walk to his truck before the other person can drag him into chit chat, when he looks down. That’s Marnie Hale, 43, the new head librarian who moved to town six months prior, who every guy his age and half his age has been tripping over themselves to impress, who he’s only ever seen from across the aisle at the hardware store because he hasn’t set foot in the public library since he was a kid skipping school to read old mining journals. She’s got freckles dusted across her nose, streaks of burnt auburn running through her dark curly hair pulled back in a messy braid, and she’s laughing so hard she snorts, not even mad about the cobbler dripping down his jacket. She leans in to brush a glob of crust and whipped cream off his chest, her fingers warm even through the layers of Carhartt and flannel underneath, and he freezes, his throat going dry. He knows she’s 19 years younger than him, knows the gossips at the Main Street diner would have a field day if they saw him so much as holding a conversation with her, that even letting himself look at her for longer than two seconds makes him feel like a creep, like he’s breaking some unspoken small town rule. He can’t look away from her eyes, though—hazel, flecked with bright green, crinkled at the corners from laughing so hard.
She offers to buy him a beer to make up for ruining his jacket, says she’s been meaning to track him down anyway, the historical society told her he’s the only person in town who knows the full history of the abandoned gold mining camps outside the city limits, and she’s putting together a local history exhibit for the library. He agrees before his brain can scream at him to leave, even though every instinct he’s honed over the last 18 years is telling him to run, that this is a bad idea, that he’ll only make a fool of himself. They sit at a splintered picnic table in the far corner of the beer garden, far enough from the crowd that no one they recognize is paying them any attention, the smell of fried Oreos and ponderosa pine drifting over the chain link fence, the distant rumble of the Ferris wheel motor mixing with the twang of a bluegrass band playing on the main stage. She leans in when he talks about mapping the old mining camp property lines back in the early 2000s, her knee brushing his under the table, not pulling away when his hand brushes hers as he passes her the bowl of salted peanuts between them. She teases him about the headphones around his neck, says she’s seen him at the hardware store wearing them even when the only noise is the hum of the fluorescent lights, and he admits he uses them to avoid random strangers striking up conversations about the weather or football. She laughs and pulls a pair of fake wireless earbuds out of her jacket pocket, says she keeps them to wear at the library when she doesn’t want to fend off regulars who hit on her while she’s reshelving books. For the first time in years, he doesn’t feel like he’s forcing conversation, like he’s performing a version of himself that’s more likable, less gruff. He just gets to be himself, no pretense, no pressure.
When the sun starts to dip below the Siskiyou Hills, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and dusty rose, she asks him if he wants to come back to her place to look through the box of 19th century mining camp property maps she’s been sorting through, says she’s got a bottle of good small-batch bourbon stashed for when she’s working late on the exhibit. He doesn’t even hesitate, says yes. They walk out to the parking lot together, her shoulder brushing his every few steps, and when they stop by his truck, she tucks a stray curl behind her ear, leans up, and kisses him, soft, the taste of peach cobbler and light lager on her lips. He kisses her back, slow, not caring if any of the fairgoers loading coolers into their SUVs are staring, not caring about the age gap or the gossip or all the stupid, self-imposed rules he’s been following for 18 years. He unlocks the passenger door and holds it open for her, and she climbs in, grinning, tucking her braid over her shoulder as she settles into the seat. He gets in the driver’s seat, turns the key, and pulls out of the fair parking lot, the low hum of the truck’s engine mixing with the sound of her humming along to the Johnny Cash song playing on the old country radio station he keeps preset.
