Jax Rainer, 62, has restored antique maps out of his garage workshop in rural northeast Ohio for 32 years. He’s a creature of strict routine: up at 6 a.m. to feed his hound dog, 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. hunched over a light table peeling century-old paper off linen backings, Tuesday nights at the VFW for darts, frozen pepperoni pizza every Friday for dinner. He hasn’t strayed from that pattern much since his wife, Ellen, passed from breast cancer eight years prior. He’d avoided the county fair every August since too—Ellen had dragged him there every year for 27 years, won first place in the peach pie contest three times running, and the place felt too empty without her complaining about the livestock barn stench. His darts league buddies had badgered him into going this year, though, said the beer garden had cheaper drafts than the VFW, and he’d caved, if only to get them off his back.
The beer tent was sticky under his work boots, the air thick with the smell of fried dough, hops, and faint cow manure drifting over from the 4-H barns. A cover band in faded denim vests played “Jack and Diane” off-key by the entrance, kids screamed as they ran past chasing each other with cotton candy. He was leaning against a splintered picnic table nursing a plastic cup of Pabst when someone backed into him, and half an ounce of beer sloshed over the rim onto the front of a cream linen work shirt embroidered with the county extension logo on the chest.
“Shit, sorry, I wasn’t looking—” He started to grab a napkin from the dispenser on the table, then froze when she turned around. He’d know that tiny scar on her left wrist anywhere, the one she’d gotten when she fell off his trampoline at 13, trying to do a backflip to impress his daughter. Lila Marlow. She’d been his daughter’s best friend from third grade through high school, spent half her weekends at their house, ate more of his chocolate chip cookies than his own kid did. Last time he’d seen her, she was 23, packing up a U-Haul to go to grad school in Illinois, pigtails still, covered in glitter from her going away party.
Now she was 38, sun-bleached blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid, freckles across her nose, smile the same wide, crinkly-eyed thing he remembered. “Jax? Oh my god, I thought that was you. Don’t worry about the shirt, I spilled a whole bottle of goat feed on it earlier, beer’s an improvement.” She laughed, leaned against the table across from him, and his chest went tight. He felt stupid, ridiculous even, for noticing how her work jeans fit her hips, how her nail polish was chipped the same light blue it had been when she was 16. A voice in the back of his head yelled that this was wrong, that she was a kid he’d watched grow up, that he was old enough to be her dad. But when she leaned in closer, elbow brushing his, to ask how his daughter was doing out in Portland, that voice got quieter.
They talked for 45 minutes. She told him she’d moved back to the county six months prior, took the ag extension job, spent most of her days driving between farms helping folks with soil testing and 4-H programming. She asked about his map restoration work, actually asked, didn’t just nod and change the subject like most people half his age did. When he told her he was working on restoring an 1872 map of the Ohio and Erie Canal, her eyes lit up. She shifted closer, her knee brushing his under the table, and said she’d written a paper on the canal for her senior history project in high school, he’d let her borrow a dozen old maps from his collection to research it. He’d forgotten that.
She asked if he wanted to walk the fairgrounds with her, get a fried Oreo, and he agreed before he could talk himself out of it. The sun was starting to set, painting the sky pink and tangerine, the Ferris wheel lights flickering on one by one. They walked past the Tilt-A-Whirl, past the livestock barns, past a booth selling hand-carved wooden compasses. She stopped, picked one up, ran her thumb over the carved oak surface. “These look just like the old compasses you had hanging over your workbench,” she said, handing it to him. Their fingers brushed, and he felt a jolt run up his arm, warm and sharp, like he’d touched a live wire. She held eye contact for three full beats, longer than you hold eye contact with someone you only see as your old best friend’s dad. “I saw an article about your map restoration work in the county historical society newsletter a few months back,” she said, soft enough that only he could hear it over the carnival noise. “I almost called you. Wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”
He told her he’d avoided the fair for eight years, that this was the first time he’d not felt like he was just waiting to go home since Ellen died. She didn’t say she was sorry, didn’t give him that pitying look most people did when he mentioned his wife. She just nodded, said Ellen was always the nicest mom she’d ever known, used to let her stay over for a week when her parents were fighting.
They split a fried Oreo, powdered sugar dusting both their fingers. She wiped a crumb off his chin with her thumb, didn’t pull her hand away right away, her skin warm against his stubble. She said she was off next Wednesday, asked if she could stop by his workshop, see the canal map he was working on. He nodded, fished a pen out of his work shirt pocket, scribbled his cell number on the back of a crumpled fair admission ticket, handed it to her. She tucked it into the front pocket of her jeans, smiled, squeezed his wrist before she turned to go, said she had to make it to the 4-H goat awards ceremony in ten minutes.
He stood there for a minute, turning the wooden compass she’d bought him for twelve dollars over in his hand, the faint smell of her coconut shampoo still lingering in the air around him. He took a sip of his warm, flat beer, thought about his usual Wednesday routine: darts at the VFW, frozen pizza, falling asleep on the couch to old westerns. For the first time in eight years, he didn’t mind the idea of breaking it.
