Rafe Mendez, 62, retired air traffic controller, leaned his shoulder against the frosted metal of the VFW’s walk-in beer cooler, condensation seeping through the thin cotton of his work shirt. He’d only shown up to the Fourth of July cookoff because his old coworker Ron had texted him three times in 24 hours, swearing the brisket this year was smoked 14 hours over post oak, no dry, burnt edges like the disaster they’d choked down last summer. Rafe still wore his frayed FAA lanyard around his neck even off duty, a faded security blanket he’d never been able to shake after 31 years of talking down panicking student pilots and dodging near-misses over central Texas. His biggest flaw, if you asked anyone who knew him, was that he’d hidden away from almost every casual social interaction since his wife Carla died three years prior, convinced any hint of fun without her was a betrayal.
He was halfway through his second cold Shiner Bock, watching a group of kids chase each other with water guns across the parking lot, when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Lila Marlow, Carla’s second cousin, stepped up to the cooler beside him, close enough that the hem of her linen work shirt brushed his scuffed work boot. She’d moved back to the county six months prior to run the ag extension office, and Rafe had gone out of his way to avoid her every time she’d dropped off boxes of community garden produce at the food bank he volunteered at on weekends. It felt wrong to even look at her for too long, like he was breaking some unspoken rule he’d written for himself the day Carla’s funeral ended.
She reached past him for a black cherry seltzer on the shelf behind his shoulder, her hip pressing firm against his for half a second, her forearm brushing the icy condensation on his beer can. She smelled like lavender hand salve and sun-warmed tomato vine, the same scent Carla used to carry home after she spent weekends tending her vegetable patch. “I’ve been trying to track you down for three weeks,” she said, leaning against the cooler beside him, turning to meet his eye directly, no shyness, no awkward preamble. Her brown hair had streaks of sun-bleached gold at the ends, her hands were calloused at the knuckles from turning soil and fixing broken irrigation lines, and there was a smudge of dirt on her left jawline that made his chest feel tight for a reason he couldn’t name right away.
Rafe’s first instinct was to make an excuse, mumble something about having to fix a customer’s Cessna that afternoon and bolt for his truck. The guilt twisted sharp in his gut, like Carla was standing right there, watching him even consider talking to another woman for longer than 30 seconds. But then she laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the noise of the country band playing on the small stage by the picnic tables, and said, “Carla always told me you were the only guy within 100 miles who could fix anything with an engine and a pulse. The 4-H club just got donated a 1972 crop duster that’s been sitting in a barn for 20 years, and I need someone who won’t charge us an arm and a leg to get it running for their air show fundraiser.”
He didn’t remember agreeing to follow her out to the parking lot, but the next thing he knew they were sitting on the tailgate of his beat-up 2008 F150, a half-empty bag of barbecue chips between them, while the first round of fireworks started bursting pink and electric blue over the fairground down the road. The boom of each explosion vibrated through the truck bed, and when Lila leaned in to yell over the noise that the crop duster had a custom paint job of a Texas longhorn on the side, her knee pressed solidly against his, warm through the denim of their jeans. She didn’t move away after she finished talking, just kept her eyes locked on his, like she was waiting for him to say what they were both thinking.
The twist of guilt didn’t go away entirely, but it softened, just a little, when she said, “I know this feels weird. I felt guilty for even thinking about asking you out for coffee for two months. But Carla would’ve screamed at both of us for moping around alone this long. She told me the week before she died that if I ever moved back here, I needed to kick your ass until you stopped hiding in your garage and talked to someone who wasn’t an airplane engine.” Rafe huffed a laugh, because that sounded exactly like Carla, loud and no-nonsense, always looking out for everyone even when she was sick. He reached up without thinking, brushed the smudge of dirt off her jaw with his thumb, his skin brushing hers soft and warm, and she didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away.
He told her he’d be at the 4-H barn at 8 a.m. Saturday, bring his toolbox and a spare set of spark plugs just in case. She grinned, pulled her phone out of her work pants pocket, handed it to him to type in his number. Their fingers brushed when she took the phone back, and he didn’t feel that sharp twist of guilt this time, just a quiet, warm buzz in his chest he hadn’t felt in three years. She said she’d bring a peach pie, the recipe she’d learned from Carla’s mom, the same one Carla used to make every Fourth of July, crust crispy on the edges, filled with fruit she’d picked herself.
The last of the opening fireworks burst overhead, a shower of bright gold sparks that lit up the whole parking lot for two seconds. Lila tilted her head back to watch it, her shoulder pressing solidly against his, and he didn’t move away.
