Russell “Rust” Pritchard, 67, antique map restorer, leans against the gnarled trunk of a post oak at the downtown Asheville block party, linseed oil smudge faint on his jaw, flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows even though the July air hums at 78 degrees. He’d been dragged here by his niece, who’d begged for an hour, swearing the bluegrass band he’d streamed on repeat through three years of restoring a 1792 coastal survey map was headlining. He’d sworn he’d never step foot at an event run by his ex-wife, who’d left him 22 years prior for the real estate developer that bulldozed his grandfather’s general store to build a gated luxury cabin community. But the band’s banjo player was 82 now, and this would probably be his last tour in the region, so he’d caved, tucking his wallet in his worn work boot just in case he had to bolt fast.
He pops the tab on an IPA he grabbed from the community cooler, condensation beading down his wrist, and keeps his eyes fixed on the stage, pointedly ignoring the bake sale table 20 feet away where his ex laughs while passing a chocolate chip cookie to a kid in a dinosaur shirt. A shadow falls over his cooler, and a woman’s shoulder brushes his, hard enough that a drop of beer sloshes over the can’s rim onto his forearm. He looks down, recognizes the thin, silvery burn scar snaking up her left wrist first, then the smattering of freckles across her nose he’d only seen once, 30 years prior, at his wedding. Elara, his ex’s cousin, 62, traveling glassblower, pulls a root beer from the cooler, pops the tab with her thumb, and smirks like she can see the panic flicker across his face.