Ray Voss, 58, retired electric line worker for western Ohio’s Auglaize County Co-op, had three non-negotiable rules for small town public events: avoid his ex-wife at all costs, never pay more than $5 for a domestic beer, and never, under any circumstances, speak to Clara Bennett. He’d held that last rule for 22 years, ever since she’d stood in a divorce court and lied through her teeth about him stepping out on her cousin, a lie that cost him half his pension and full access to his kids for three years. His knuckles still tightened when he thought about it.
The September air at the county fire department’s annual rib cookoff smelled like hickory smoke, fried green tomatoes, and the faint sour tang of spilled beer. Ray wore the same faded plaid flannel he’d worn to every cookoff since 2019, the cuffs frayed where he’d cut them off after a line repair in an ice storm left him with permanent nerve damage in his left wrist. He was halfway through a pulled pork sandwich slathered in mustard-based sauce, plastic cup of Miller Lite in his other hand, when a kid in a youth football jersey darted between his legs, sending half the beer sloshing over the cup’s rim.
It splashed directly across Clara Bennett’s forearm.
Ray froze, already mentally drafting a snappy, bitter retort to whatever snark she was about to throw his way, until he looked up. She was leaning against the splintered pine picnic table, dark hair shot through with thick streaks of silver pulled back in a loose braid, wearing a worn Fleetwood Mac tee and high-waisted jeans that fit far better than they had any right to on a woman in her mid-50s. She blinked, then laughed, a low, warm sound that didn’t match the shrill, sharp tone he remembered from court. “Still as clumsy as you were when you backed your work truck into my grandma’s mailbox in ‘98?”
He fumbled for a crumpled napkin in his flannel pocket, reached out to dab the beer off her arm before he thought better of it. His fingers brushed the soft, slightly cool skin of her forearm, and he felt a jolt run up his spine that had nothing to do with the old electrical shocks he’d taken on the job. She didn’t flinch. “Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling his hand back fast like he’d been burned. “Kid came out of nowhere.”
She waved it off, patting the empty spot on the picnic table bench next to her. “Sit. I owe you an apology anyway, before you storm off like you usually do when you see me.”
Ray hesitated. Every instinct screamed to walk away, to go find his old coworker Jake and complain about the price of rib plates, to stick to the rule he’d held for half his adult life. But she smelled like lavender lotion and campfire smoke, not the cloying rose perfume his ex used to douse herself in, and her eyes were soft, no sharp edge behind them. He sat, keeping a good six inches between their bodies at first.
Clara didn’t waste time. She told him his ex had threatened to report her mom, who’d been watching Clara’s toddler son at the time, for neglect if she didn’t lie on the stand. She’d been 32, a single mom working minimum wage at the diner, no money for a lawyer, no way to fight. She’d hated every second of it, had sent him a letter apologizing a year later that he’d never opened, had thrown it in the burn barrel unread.
Ray’s chest felt tight. He’d spent 22 years hating her, replaying that testimony in his head every time he had to drop his kids off at his ex’s house, every time he had to pick up an extra shift to make up for the lost pension. And now she was sitting right next to him, their knees brushing under the table every time she shifted, and he couldn’t summon an ounce of anger.
The sun dipped below the treeline, and the first firework went off with a loud crack over the field, sending sparks of red and gold across the sky. Most of the crowd moved toward the open grass to get a better view, leaving their table half in shadow, no one paying them any mind. Clara leaned in closer, so her shoulder was pressed against his, her breath smelling like peach hard seltzer when she spoke. “I’ve thought about finding you a hundred times over the years. Was scared you’d punch me before I could explain.”
Ray looked down at her hand resting on the table between them, her nails painted a chipped deep red, a small scar on her wrist from when she’d fallen off his four-wheeler when they were teenagers, long before the divorce, long before the bad blood. He reached out, brushed his thumb across that scar, and she didn’t pull away. “I thought about punching you a few times, too,” he said, and she laughed again, the sound mixing with the pop of the fireworks. “Guess I’m glad I didn’t.”
She turned her hand over, laced her fingers through his, her palm soft but calloused at the fingertips from working as a traveling nurse for the last 15 years, she’d told him earlier, just moved back to town to take care of her mom who had early onset dementia. “I’m renting that old cottage on Miller Road, the one with the blue shutters,” she said, her eyes locked on his, the light from the fireworks painting streaks of blue across her face. “Make good coffee. Pot’s on at 8 tomorrow, if you want to come by. We can finish talking.”
Ray squeezed her hand, the old rule he’d held for 22 years feeling as flimsy as the paper napkin he’d used to wipe the beer off her arm an hour earlier. He didn’t have any plans tomorrow, hadn’t had any real plans since he retired six months ago, just spent most days fixing old lawnmowers in his garage and watching reruns of old westerns. “I’ll be there,” he said.
A group of drunk teens stumbled past their table, whooping at the fireworks, and she leaned in further, resting her head against his shoulder for half a second before pulling back, her thumb brushing the back of his hand. He lifted their laced hands to take a sip of his beer, not letting go even when the last firework fizzled out and the crowd started cheering for the rib contest winners.
