Moe Sorrentino, 53, restores antique typewriters out of a converted upstate New York garage. He hasn’t made a spontaneous decision in seven years, not since his wife left a note taped to his 1956 Royal KMM saying she’d rather move to Miami than spend another winter listening to him complain about stuck shift keys. His flaws are predictable: he maps grocery runs two weeks in advance, only brews coffee to exactly 195 degrees, and avoids any interaction that might derail his rigid schedule.
He’s at the August Saturday farmers market, sweat beading at the edge of his graying buzzcut, holding a crinkly paper bag of white peaches he haggled 50 cents off, when he spots her. Lila Marlow, 34, his old high school shop teacher’s daughter, the same kid who snuck into his work station at 12 to steal his root beer and draw stick figures on his notepads. She’s laughing at the honey seller’s terrible joke, sun streaks bleeding through her auburn hair, a linen dress slipping off one tanned shoulder, and Moe’s first instinct is to duck behind the jarred pickle stand. He’s avoided her for three months, ever since she dropped off her late mom’s 1960s Smith Corona to his shop, her arm brushing his when she handed over the case, the smell of coconut sunscreen clinging to her clothes so strongly he replayed the interaction for a week straight.
He’s too slow. She spots him first, waves, and cuts through the thinning crowd before he can run for his truck. She’s closer now, close enough he sees the freckles across her nose, chipped mint-green nail polish on her fingers, and she smells like jasmine and the peach popsicle she’s holding, sticky juice running down her wrist. “I thought that was you,” she says, grinning, her voice deeper and warmer than the squeaky pre-teen he remembers. “You never called about that typewriter. I was starting to think you threw it out.”
Moe rubs the back of his neck, black typewriter ribbon ink still staining his left wrist. “Nah, it’s done. Just got busy.” It’s a lie, and he’s pretty sure she can tell. She leans in, their shoulders almost touching, and nods at the peach bag in his hand. “Those look good. My dad used to bring home the exact same ones every August, said they were the only thing sweet enough to get you to stop grumbling about a bad repair job.”
She reaches for the bag to pick one up, her fingers brushing his knuckles, and Moe flinches so hard he drops a peach to the dirt. They both bend to grab it at the same time, their foreheads bumping with a soft thud, and Lila laughs so hard she snorts, her hand landing on his bicep and staying there for three full seconds, heat seeping through his thin gray work shirt. Moe’s face goes hot, a reaction he hasn’t had since he was 17 and got caught making out with a girl in the shop supply closet.
“You gonna be weird about this?” she asks, still grinning, wiping dirt off the peach on the hem of her dress. “I asked you for coffee three weeks ago at the hardware store and you practically ran to your truck. You scared of me or something?”
Moe hesitates, conflict tight in his chest. This is wrong, he tells himself. He knew her when she carried a Hello Kitty backpack. Her dad would knock his teeth out if he knew he was standing this close. He doesn’t do messy, unplanned things that could derail the routine he spent seven years building. But she’s looking up at him, green eyes bright, no pretense, and he can’t remember the last time anyone looked at him like he was more interesting than a broken typewriter.
“Nah,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”
“Good,” she says, popping the peach back into his bag. “The old swimming hole down by the creek is empty this time of day. It’s still 82 degrees out. You wanna go cool off?”
He doesn’t say no. They walk the half mile down the rutted dirt path, fireflies blinking in the tall grass at the edge of the tree line, crickets chirping so loud they almost drown out the distant hum of a lawnmower a few streets over. Lila kicks off her sandals as soon as they reach the water, pulls her linen dress over her head in one smooth motion to reveal a plain navy one-piece swimsuit, and wades into the creek, splashing water at him when he hesitates on the bank. Moe toes off his work boots, shucks his socks, rolls the cuffs of his faded Carhartts up to his knees, and steps into the cold water, the shock making him huff out a laugh.
She swims over, her feet not touching the rocky bottom, and her hand finds his under the surface, fingers lacing through his calloused, ink-stained ones. He doesn’t pull away. She tells him she’s had a crush on him since she was 16, used to make up excuses to stop by her dad’s shop just to watch him work, thought he was the coolest guy she’d ever met. He laughs, says he had no idea, that back then he thought she was just a pain in the ass who kept stealing his soda. They stay in the water for an hour, talking, the sun dipping below the tree line, painting the sky pink and soft purple.
When they walk back to the parking lot, the air is starting to cool, and Lila stops next to his beat-up 2008 Ford Ranger. She leans up, kisses him soft on the mouth, and she tastes like peach and sweet iced tea, her hand resting light on the side of his neck. “I’ll come by your shop Tuesday to pick up the typewriter,” she says when she pulls back. “You can make that spaghetti you used to make for my dad when he worked late. I remember it was good.”
She gets in her Honda Civic, waves, and pulls out of the lot. Moe stands there for a minute, holding the slightly bruised peach they’d dropped earlier, and takes a bite, sweet juice running down his chin onto his shirt collar. He pulls out his phone, deletes the grocery schedule he had typed up in his notes app, already thinking about what kind of garlic bread he’ll make Tuesday night.
