Clay Marlow, 58, retired power lineman, part-time handyman for the Maplewood Senior Center, has held the same grudge for 22 years. He’s stubborn to a fault, still sleeps on the same lumpy mattress he bought after his divorce, still refuses to answer holiday cards from his ex-wife’s side of the family, still gets a tight twist in his jaw when he hears Margot Hale’s name mentioned at the diner. Back in 2001, she testified against him in his custody battle, told the judge she’d seen him drinking beer before picking up his 7-year-old daughter Lila from soccer practice. He lost partial custody, missed three years of her birthdays and recitals before his ex finally admitted she’d lied to Margot to win the case. He hasn’t spoken a single word to Margot since, even though she moved back to town three years ago to take over her late mother’s bookstore.
He’s manning the grill at the town’s summer flood relief block party when he spots her, standing by the lemonade stand, laughing at something the high school volunteer said. Sweat is rolling down the back of his neck, sticking his faded gray cutoff flannel to his shoulders, and he’s got a lukewarm beer in a camo koozie in one hand, a pair of tongs in the other. The air smells like charcoal, burnt hot dogs, and citronella candles, and a group of kids are screaming as they run through a sprinkler someone set up on the front lawn of the community center. He tries to ignore her, flips a row of burgers, makes small talk with the guy from the hardware store next to him, but he keeps glancing over, noticing the silver streaks threading through her dark brown hair, the freckles across her nose, the way her linen sundress skims the top of her bare calves. He hates that he’s noticing.
When the grill runs out of propane ten minutes later, he hefts the empty tank over his shoulder and heads for the storage shed behind the center, ready to avoid her for the rest of the afternoon. The shed door is propped open when he gets there, and he steps inside, dropping the tank with a heavy thud, before a gust of wind slams the door shut behind him. The lock clicks. He hears a quiet yelp from the back of the shed, and his eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the tiny cracked window high on the wall: Margot is standing there, halfway through rummaging through a stack of paper plates, her flip flops kicked off under a folding table.
They stand on opposite sides of the shed for three full minutes, not talking, avoiding eye contact. The air smells like old latex paint and lawn fertilizer, and the distant sound of the party filters through the door: a Toby Keith song playing on the portable speaker, kids laughing, the thud of cornhole bags hitting wooden boards. She takes a step forward to reach for a box of napkins on the shelf above her, trips over a stack of folding chairs, and falls forward. He reacts before he thinks, reaches out, catches her around the waist. Her palm slams flat against his chest, and he can feel her heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt, fast and fluttering. Her skin is warm, soft under his calloused lineman’s hands, and she smells like coconut sunscreen and peppermint gum. He yanks his hand away like he’s been burned, his jaw tight, the old anger bubbling up fast, tangled with a weird, hot buzz he hasn’t felt since he was in his 20s.
She straightens her dress, brushes a strand of hair off her face, and says she’s sorry. Not for tripping, for the testimony. She says his ex lied to her, told her he’d been drinking before he picked Lila up every day, that she’d believed it, that she found out the truth a year later and had been wanting to apologize ever since, but she was scared he’d tell her to go fuck herself. She’s looking right at him when she says it, her brown eyes bright, and he realizes he hasn’t looked her in the eye in over two decades. He doesn’t know what to say, so he shrugs, leans back against the workbench, his shoulder almost touching hers. The space between them is so small he can feel the heat coming off her arms, and he keeps glancing down at her mouth, at the faint gloss she’s wearing, the little scar on her lower lip from a bike accident when they were kids, something he’d forgotten about until right now.
She reaches up slowly, brushes a spiderweb off his cheek, her fingers lingering on the rough gray stubble along his jawline. He doesn’t pull away. He can hear someone calling their names from outside, faint, like they’re looking for the extra propane tank, and that’s when he kisses her. Slow at first, tentative, like he’s waiting for her to push him away, but she kisses him back, her arms looping around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. She tastes like spiked lemonade and peppermint, and he pulls her closer, his hand resting on her bare thigh where her dress has ridden up, the calluses on his palm catching on her soft skin. It’s stupid, it’s reckless, everyone they know is 50 feet away, and he’s hated her for half his life, and that’s the best part, the little thrill that zips up his spine, the way all the old anger melts away into something warmer, sharper, brighter.
Someone bangs on the door hard, yells if anyone’s inside, and they jump apart, laughing quiet, like a couple of teenagers sneaking around after prom. He pulls the flathead screwdriver he always keeps in his flannel pocket out, jiggles the lock until it clicks open. She walks out first, adjusting her dress, wiping the gloss off his chin with the back of her hand before she steps into the sun. He waits two minutes, hefts the new propane tank over his shoulder, and follows, no one paying them any mind.
He’s back at the grill ten minutes later, flipping burgers, when she walks by, carrying a plate of potato salad. She slips a crumpled scrap of paper into his flannel pocket when no one’s looking, her knuckles brushing his for half a second, and winks. He pulls it out later when he’s taking a sip of his beer, sees her phone number scrawled in messy cursive, with a note that says I owe you dinner to make up for 22 years of being an idiot. He tucks it back into his pocket, looks over at her, sitting on a picnic blanket with a group of her friends, laughing as she passes a slice of cake to a little kid. He flips a burger on the grill, the grease sizzling up to singe his forearm, and smiles so wide his cheek muscles ache.
