Elroy Voss, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, had manned the block party grill every July for 19 years straight. He knew the exact heat to get bratwurst casings to snap without burning the meat inside, knew which kids snuck extra bags of chips, knew which neighbors would corner him to beg for custom cutting boards for their kids’ weddings. For 8 of those years, he’d also turned down every half-joking suggestion from friends that he bring a date, the twist of guilt in his gut sharp enough to make him change the subject every time. He’d spent 32 years married to Linda, and the idea of letting someone else take the spot next to him at any event felt like a betrayal, even if she’d laughed and told him from her hospice bed that if he didn’t find someone to annoy after she was gone, she’d hide all his favorite chisels.
The July air hung thick with clover and charcoal smoke when he first spotted her. She was leaning against the split-rail fence across the street, holding a lime seltzer, the hem of her navy sundress brushing the tops of her scuffed white sneakers. Silver streaks cut through her auburn hair, pulled loose by the wind, and when she caught him staring she didn’t look away, just lifted her can in a small toast, one corner of her mouth tugging up in a smirk. He wiped his grease-stained hands on his Carhartt apron and nodded back, his ears going warm, annoyed at himself for even noticing.