Rudy Galvez, 62, retired woodshop teacher, had dragged himself to the small town fire department fundraiser only because his former star student, now a volunteer firefighter, had shown up on his porch two days prior with a six pack of his favorite IPA and refused to leave until Rudy agreed to come. He’d spent the first 45 minutes hovering by the walk-in cooler at the back of McGinty’s Bar, avoiding the chatter of neighbors he’d known for 30 years, picking at the frayed cuff of his plaid flannel shirt, mentally running through the list of unfinished walnut cutting boards he had waiting on his workbench at home. He hated small talk, hated the performative “how’ve you been?” questions no one actually wanted an honest answer to, had barely spoken to anyone outside his local lumber yard in the three months prior. He’d been that way since his wife Elaine died eight years before, content to stick to his rigid routine, no surprises, no messy feelings to untangle.
He reached into the cooler for another pale ale, his knuckles brushing a smaller hand reaching for a black cherry seltzer at the same time. He pulled his hand back like he’d been burned, looked up, and froze. It was Lila Marlow, Elaine’s youngest cousin, the one who’d run off to Portland after college to study horticulture, who he hadn’t seen since Elaine’s funeral 12 years prior. She was 48 now, a streak of silver cutting through the dark brown waves of her hair, a smudge of dark potting soil on the edge of her left jaw, her work boots caked in mud, like she’d come straight from the native plant nursery she’d moved back to town to run three months prior, the one he’d heard about at the lumber yard but had actively avoided visiting.
She grinned, crinkles fanning out at the corners of her hazel eyes, and didn’t pull her hand away right away, the cold from the seltzer can seeping through the aluminum to press against his wrist. “Rudy Galvez. I thought that was you. I asked around at the lumber yard last week, they said you never come to this stuff.” Her voice was lower than he remembered, rougher from years of working outside in wind and rain, and she leaned in a little to be heard over the jukebox blaring *Folsom Prison Blues*, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep, the soft worn denim of her jacket rubbing against the flannel of his shirt. He could smell cedar and lavender on her, mixed with the faint sweet tang of cherry seltzer, and for a second he forgot how to speak.
He’d always thought of Lila as off limits, even when she’d showed up to his and Elaine’s house every weekend in her early 20s, borrowing their lawnmower, begging him to teach her how to build raised garden beds, lingering at the dinner table long after Elaine had gone to bed to ask him about his woodworking projects. Back then he’d brushed off the little flutters in his chest as silly, as disrespectful to the woman he’d promised to spend his life with. Now, standing in the back of the bar, her shoulder pressed to his, he felt that same flutter, warring with a sharp twist of guilt, like he was betraying Elaine by even noticing how pretty she was, how her thin silver hoops caught the neon blue light of the beer sign above the cooler.
They talked for an hour, leaning against the cooler, ignoring the people calling their names to join the cornhole tournament by the front door. She told him about the nursery, about the native wildflower garden she was planting for the fire station, about how she’d kept the bluebird house he’d built her for her first apartment, hung on the porch of every place she’d lived in the last 26 years. He told her about the cutting boards, about the little oak table he was building for the local library’s children’s section, about how he’d stopped going out because he got tired of people looking at him like he was a broken thing that needed fixing. She nodded when he said that, no pity in her eyes, just understanding, and she brushed a piece of lint off his sleeve, her fingers lingering on his forearm for half a second too long, the calluses on her fingertips from pruning shears rough against his skin, which was still dotted with tiny scars from decades of table saw accidents.
The emcee for the fundraiser yelled over the crowd that it was time for the dunk tank, and a group of rowdy firefighters dragged him over before he could protest, daring him to sit on the platform because he’d once pranked the entire high school football team by gluing their cleats to the locker room floor their senior year. He laughed, let them lead him over, and five minutes later he was soaked head to toe, the cold October water making him gasp, the crowd cheering around him. When he climbed out of the tank, shivering, Lila was waiting for him with a thick cotton towel, and when he rubbed it over his hair, she reached up and tucked a stray wet strand behind his ear, her palm brushing his cheek. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 21,” she said, quiet enough that only he could hear, no hesitation in her voice. “I waited, because I knew you loved Elaine more than anything. But I’m here now, if you want to stop being alone all the time.” He stared at her for a long second, the guilt he’d been carrying all night melting away, because he knew Elaine would have laughed at him for being so stupid, for waiting so long to let someone in again.
He told her that, quiet, and she smiled, took the towel from his hand and wiped a drop of water off his jaw. They left the bar before the 50/50 raffle was called, walking down Main Street, the streetlights glinting off the wet pavement from an earlier light rain, the air sharp with the smell of fallen oak leaves and wood smoke from a nearby fireplace. She slipped her hand into his, her fingers laced through his, the potting soil still smudged on her knuckle pressing against the old wood stain he could never scrub out of the crevices of his fingers. He didn’t let go, didn’t overthink it, just slowed his pace so they could stay out a little longer before they had to go inside either of their houses.
