Rafe Holloway, 53, showed up to The Rusty Tap’s Tuesday trivia alone, same as he had for the past three years. He grabbed his usual spot in the back booth, ordered a Yuengling and a basket of fried pickles, already mentally prepping for the 90s rock category he’d dominated since the bar started trivia nights post-lockdown. The bartender, Jimmie, a kid he’d fixed a Honda CB750 for last spring, leaned over the bar a few minutes later, yelling over the hum of the neon signs and the chatter of the crowd. “Rule change this month, Rafe. No solo players. Couples trivia rebranded to pair trivia, everyone’s gotta have a partner. I got you matched with the lady who just walked in, knows her 70s cinema, you two’ll crush it.”
He looked up, and his jaw went tight. Lila Marlow, his ex-wife Karen’s younger cousin, the last time he saw her she was 32, wearing a frumpy bridesmaid dress at Karen’s sister’s wedding, sneaking him a cold beer when Karen was yelling at him for missing the group photos because he’d stopped to fix a flat on an elderly stranger’s car in the parking lot. She slid into the booth across from him, her denim skirt riding up her thigh a little, the toe of her white leather sneaker brushing his grease-caked work boot under the table. He tensed up, ready to say he was leaving, that he didn’t associate with anyone from Karen’s side of the family, but she grinned, the same tiny gap between her two front teeth he remembered, and held her hands up in surrender. “Don’t bolt. I haven’t talked to Karen in four years, she called my abusive ex-husband a ‘solid catch’ two weeks after I filed for divorce. I’m as done with her as you are.”
He relaxed, just a little. The booth’s vinyl was sticky with weeks of spilled beer, sticking to the back of his flannel-clad forearms when he leaned back. She had a charcoal smudge on her left wrist, wore silver hoop earrings that caught the neon pink light from the Miller High Life sign above the bar, her hair cut short now, streaked with soft gray at the temples. She smelled like coconut shampoo and the menthol vape she pulled out of her leather jacket pocket after she ordered a black cherry White Claw. He knew he should leave, that every regular in this bar knew who she was, that word would get back to Karen eventually, that he’d look like a sad old man chasing his ex’s younger cousin. But she was already leaning forward, pointing at the trivia host who’d just stepped up to the mic, and he found himself staying.
They clicked fast. The first question was 70s biker films, he answered *Easy Rider* before the host finished reading, she nailed the follow-up about the year it premiered, 1969, correct. The next category was graphic design history, she aced three questions in a row, explaining between rounds that she was a senior creative director for a regional craft beer brand now, had moved back to Charlotte six months prior after leaving her ex in Portland. When she reached across the table to grab a fried pickle, her elbow knocked his Yuengling off balance, he caught it before it spilled, their hands brushing for half a second. His skin tingled, sharp and warm, he hadn’t touched a woman who wasn’t his sister or his hound dog’s vet tech in close to seven years.
She laughed, apologizing, and he waved it off, suddenly self-conscious of the grease under his fingernails, the tear in his flannel elbow from a carburetor spring that snapped on a 1968 Indian Scout he was restoring earlier that day. He’d spent eight years closed off, turning down every woman who’d ever slipped him a phone number at the shop or the bar, convinced anyone his age was either looking for a caretaker or a quick cash grab, still stinging from the humiliation of Karen leaving him for a 41-year-old tech bro who wore white sneakers to their divorce hearing. But Lila didn’t look at him like he was a paycheck or a handyman. She asked him about the Scout, listened intently when he talked about stripping the rust off the gas tank, nodded when he said he worked 12 hour days most weeks because it kept his mind quiet.
The final question, worth double points, pulled him out of his head. “What model of Harley-Davidson was the first to feature a factory electric start, released in 1965?” He didn’t even hesitate, blurting out Electra Glide before the host finished the question. They won first place by 12 points, the prize a $100 bar tab and two custom neoprene koozies printed with The Rusty Tap’s logo. The regulars around them cheered, a few guys he’d fixed bikes for hooting and whistling, and Lila leaned across the table to hug him, her chest pressing against his shoulder, her lips brushing the shell of his ear when she whispered, “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 17 and you taught me how to change a tire at Karen’s Fourth of July cookout. Don’t make me go home alone.”
He hesitated for half a second, thinking about all the years he’d spent clinging to grudges, hiding out in his shop, letting his fear of getting burned again keep him from feeling anything stronger than mild satisfaction at finishing a restoration. Then he cupped her jaw, calloused thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek, and kissed her slow, right there in the booth, didn’t care who was watching, didn’t care if someone ran their mouth to Karen. She kissed him back, her hand tangling in the graying hair at the back of his neck, the faint taste of cherry seltzer on her lips.
They cashed out 20 minutes later, telling Jimmie he could use the rest of the $100 tab to buy a round for everyone still in the bar. The air outside was cool, sharp with the smell of pine and freshly cut grass from the empty field next to the parking lot, crickets chirping loud enough to drown out the distant hum of traffic on I-485. He opened the passenger door of his beat-up 2001 Ford F-150 for her, she slid in, tucking her legs under her, grinning up at him like she’d just won something better than a trivia prize. When he climbed into the driver’s seat, she reached over, lacing her fingers through his, the soft calluses on her palm from holding drawing tablets matching the grease-stained calluses on his from holding wrenches. He didn’t pull away.
