Nolan Rourke swipes sweat off the back of his neck with the hem of his faded Carhartt work shirt, the afternoon sun beating so hard on his craft booth roof he can smell the hot tar mixing with the sweet tang of blueberry cobbler and fried dough drifting from the food row. He’s 63, three years retired from 27 years teaching high school woodshop, and he only agreed to set up at the Grand Haven Blueberry Festival this year because his 14-year-old granddaughter begged him to enter his hand-carved maple cutting boards, finished with beeswax he renders himself, in the local craft contest, saying she’d spend the whole day helping him man the booth if he did. She bailed an hour ago to ride the Ferris wheel with her friend from cross country, and he’s half considering packing up early before his ex-wife spots him across the fairgrounds, like he’s avoided doing every year since their divorce was finalized 12 years prior.
He’s reaching for a root beer from the cooler under his table when he sees her, and his hand freezes mid-grab. Lila Marquez. His ex-wife’s younger cousin, 57, widowed eight months back, last he heard she was living in Tucson fixing up old adobe houses. She’s wearing cutoff denim shorts and a loose white tank under an unbuttoned flannel tied at the waist, silver hoops catching the sun, a paper plate piled high with cobbler in one hand, a lemonade in the other. She spots him before he can duck behind the stack of cutting boards, and her face lights up, that same crinkly smile he’d spent 20 years of his marriage pretending he didn’t notice from across family dinner tables.
She walks over so close when she reaches his booth he can smell the vanilla coconut lotion she’s worn since she was 20, mixing with the cinnamon from the cobbler and the faint scent of sawdust clinging to his sleeves. She leans in for a hug, and her bare shoulder brushes the tattoo of a bee he got on his forearm last year on a dare from his granddaughter, the contact sending a sharp, warm jolt up his arm he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager sneaking into drive-in movies. He hasn’t spoken to her in 11 years, not since he skipped the family reunion to avoid his ex, and he can feel that old, familiar twist of guilt in his gut: the same one that used to hit him when he’d catch himself staring at her across the Christmas table, telling himself it was wrong, that she was family, that he was married even when his ex had already moved into the spare bedroom and stopped speaking to him unless it was to yell about unpaid bills.
They make small talk first, her telling him she’s moving back to town permanently to fix up her mom’s old cottage on the lake, him showing her the cutting board he carved with blueberry vines along the edge that won first place in the contest an hour earlier. She leans across the table to run her finger along the carved vines, her nail polished a soft pale blue, and her knuckle brushes his when she pulls her hand back. She says she’s been craving a good blueberry ale ever since she got back into town, and asks if he wants to head down to the new taproom on the waterfront once the festival closes for the night. For half a second he almost says no, thinks about the gossip that will spread if his ex finds out they’re hanging out, the snide comments from the old neighbors who still take her side, the guilt that’s been sitting in his chest for 20 years for wanting something he thought he couldn’t have. Then he looks at her, freckles across her nose, sun bleached strands of hair falling in her face, and he says yes.
The sun is dipping low over Lake Michigan by the time they lock up his booth and start walking, the sky streaked pink and tangerine, the grass still warm under his scuffed work boots. She grabs his arm when she steps over a pothole half hidden in the clover, her hand calloused from sanding floors at the cottage, and she doesn’t let go for three whole blocks, even when they’re past the potholes. They sit at a picnic table out back of the taproom, string lights strung above them, and their knees brush under the table every time one of them shifts to reach for their glass. She tells him she always thought he was too good for his ex, that she noticed him staring at her at the 2006 family Christmas, that she stared right back, even though she knew it was wrong too. The admission makes his ears go hot, and he fumbles his beer glass, getting a dollop of foam on the corner of his mouth.
She laughs, leans across the table, and licks the foam off slow, deliberate, her tongue warm against his skin, and he doesn’t pull away. He tells her he spent 20 years feeling like a creep for wanting her, even when his marriage was already dead, and she shakes her head, says there’s no rule that says he has to keep feeling guilty for wanting something good. They sit there until the last of the sunset fades, crickets chirping in the bushes along the waterfront, and he pulls out his phone to text his granddaughter that he’s staying out late, no need to wait up for him. When he looks back up, she’s holding up her beer glass to clink against his, her eyes bright in the glow of the string lights. He reaches for his glass, his hand brushing hers when they meet, and he doesn’t feel that old twist of guilt anymore, just the warm fizz of the ale in his chest and the quiet thrill of not caring what anyone else thinks.
