Cole Bennett, 58, leans against the scuffed oak bar of the Silver Dollar Taphouse, half-empty hazy IPA sweating in his grip. He spent the last 12 hours manning the grill at the local fire department’s annual fundraiser, and smoked brisket grease still crusted at the edge of his work boots, his left shoulder throbbing from hauling 40-pound propane tanks before dawn. He’d planned to drink one beer and head home to his quiet ranch house, heat up leftover potato salad, and fall asleep to old westerns, same as every Saturday for the last 8 years, ever since his wife Elaine died of ovarian cancer. He hasn’t so much as flirted with a woman since the funeral, stubbornly convinced any attempt to move on was a betrayal of the 27 years they’d spent together, chasing fire seasons across the west, living out of a camper half the year.
He spots her across the room first, perched on a stool at the end of the bar, laughing so hard at something the bartender said she snorts, then claps a hand over her mouth, cheeks pink. He recognizes her immediately: Clara Carter, 54, Elaine’s second cousin, the new county public health nurse who moved to town six months prior. They’d only met once before, at Elaine’s funeral, where she’d stood in the back wearing a black dress, her sleeves pulled down over her wrists even though the church was sweltering. Now her plaid flannel is rolled up to her elbows, and he can see the tiny sunflower tattoo inked on the inside of her left wrist, peeking out over the edge of her leather watch band. She’d given Elaine that same sunflower design as a sticker for her hard hat back when they were teens, Cole remembers, the sticker stayed on until the day Elaine retired.
She catches him staring, grins, and picks up her lime seltzer, weaving through the crowd of post-fundraiser volunteers toward him. The bar is packed, bodies pressed tight between tables, and she has to step so close when she stops in front of him that her jeans brush his boot, the scent of pine soap and vanilla lip balm wrapping around him, cutting through the smell of beer and fried peanuts. She teases him about carrying three folding tables over his shoulder at the fairgrounds an hour earlier, says she hasn’t seen anyone move that fast since her college rugby days. When she leans in to talk over the Johnny Cash track blaring from the jukebox, her hair falls forward, soft auburn strands brushing his forearm, and he tenses up, half ready to step back, make an excuse to leave, guilty for even enjoying the sound of her voice.
She doesn’t miss the flinch, and sits back a little, nodding like she expected it. She tells him she didn’t want to reach out before, knew he’d had a hard time, had heard from the other locals that he never went out, never talked to anyone who wasn’t buying a hammer at the hardware store where he worked part time. When she reaches across the bar to grab a napkin, her hand brushes his where it rests on the sticky oak, and he feels the rough callus on her middle finger from writing patient charts all day, the warmth of her skin lingering even after she pulls away. He tries to say Elaine’s name, stumbles over it, and she shakes her head, says she’s not here to replace anyone, that Elaine would have chewed him out for moping around alone for 8 years, anyway.
He relaxes after that, laughs when she tells him about the 70-year-old rancher who tried to fight her when she told him he needed to get his tetanus shot last week. They talk for two hours, the bar slowly emptying out around them, until the bartender starts wiping down the counter, shooting them pointed looks like he wants to lock up. Cole offers to walk her to her truck, parked two blocks over, and she agrees, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets when they step outside. The air is crisp, cold enough that he can see his breath, and a light drizzle starts to fall halfway down the block, cold drops hitting the back of his neck. They duck under the awning of the closed downtown bookstore, pressed tight together to stay out of the rain, his bicep flush against hers through both their flannel shirts.
He looks down at her, and she’s already looking up, hazel eyes flecked with gold, no hesitation in her gaze. He knows if any of the town’s busybodies are driving past right now, the whole county will hear about it by Sunday breakfast, the kind of gossip that would have old ladies tsking in the grocery store aisles for months, but he doesn’t care. He kisses her before he can overthink it, soft at first, like he’s afraid she’ll pull away, and then deeper when she tangles her hand in the gray hair at the nape of his neck. She tastes like lime seltzer and that vanilla lip balm he’d smelled earlier, and for the first time in 8 years, he doesn’t feel a single twinge of guilt, just a warm, light buzz in his chest, like the first sip of cold beer after a long day in the sun. When they pull apart, she’s grinning, swats his arm playfully, says she’s been waiting to do that since she saw him carrying those tables earlier that day.
They make it to her truck a minute later, rain coming down a little harder now, and she hands him her phone, tells him to put his number in. He types it in, adds a tiny sunflower emoji next to his name, and she snorts, shoving his shoulder again. She climbs into the driver’s seat, rolls down the window, and waves as she pulls out of the parking spot, taillights fading down the wet street. Cole stands there for another minute, rain soaking through the collar of his flannel, holding the crumpled napkin she’d scribbled her address on in his pocket. He turns toward home, boots squelching in the puddles forming on the sidewalk, already looking forward to waking up to her text in the morning.
