Ray Voss, 58, retired union construction foreman, wiped a smudge of beef chili off the cuff of his faded Carhartt flannel and leaned against the splintered wooden rail of the VFW booth. The small town fall festival hummed around him, bluegrass twang mixing with the tang of fried funnel cake and the sharp, hoppy scent drifting from the beer tent 20 yards away. He’d avoided dating for 19 years, ever since his ex-wife left him for a 28-year-old pharmaceutical rep, convinced any relationship would just end in more noise, more people gossiping about his business. That was his rule, no exceptions, and he’d stuck to it so tight his old crew teased him he was one step away from becoming the town hermit.
He looked up when a shadow fell across the pot of chili, and found Lila Marlow leaning in, elbows propped on the rail, close enough he could catch the coconut of her shampoo over the festival chaos. 38, the new county public health nurse, her mom played bridge with his sister every other Wednesday, she’d been hounding him for three weeks to get his updated COVID booster at the senior center. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid, a stray piece stuck to the sweat on her neck, and she was wearing scuffed work boots and a flannel that matched the wash of his, almost. She grinned, and he felt that stupid, unfamiliar lurch in his chest he’d written off as gone for good.
“Figured I’d find you here hiding from your booster appointment,” she said, and he snorted, grabbing a paper bowl to scoop her a serving. “Told the girls at the center I don’t get sick, don’t need no needle stuck in my arm,” he muttered, half-joking. He’d meant to hand the bowl over quick, keep the interaction casual, but when their fingers brushed as she took the bowl, he froze. His hands were crisscrossed with scars, a nail gun gash on his left knuckle, calluses thick as leather from 35 years swinging a hammer. Hers were soft, a chip in the navy blue polish on her thumb, warm from holding her iced coffee earlier. He pulled his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove, suddenly furious at himself for even noticing. She was 20 years younger, half the town knew both of them, his sister would never let him live it down if anyone saw them talking longer than 10 seconds.
He should have made an excuse, walked off to help the guys break down the booth, but he didn’t. She stayed, leaning against the rail while she ate, asking about the custom porch he was building for the widow down the street, listening like she actually cared when he talked about cutting the cedar posts himself, how he’d picked out each one from the lumber yard up in Flagstaff. She told him she’d just finalized her divorce six months prior, that her ex had hated living in a small town, thought she was wasting her degree working with old folks and at public health clinics. When a group of teens on ATVs roared past the booth, she stepped closer to him, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep, and he didn’t move away.
By 8 o’clock the sun was dipping below the desert mountains, painting the sky pink and tangerine, and the festival crowd was thinning out. His crew loaded the leftover chili into the back of their truck, yelling at him to meet them at the VFW for a round of pool, and he nodded like he was going to go. But when Lila asked if he wanted to walk the paved trail along the wash behind the fairgrounds, where the fireflies were starting to blink on over the sagebrush, he didn’t hesitate. He told the guys he’d catch up later, ignoring the teasing winks they tossed his way, and followed her off the fairgrounds.
The trail was quiet, crickets chirping loud enough to drown out the last of the festival music, the air cool enough he could see his breath when he exhaled. She stopped at a weathered wooden bench half a mile in, patting the spot next to her, and he sat. Their knees brushed when he settled in, denim on denim, and she turned to face him, the streetlight from the edge of the fairgrounds gilding the edges of her hair. She told him she’d had a crush on him since she moved to town, saw him out in his driveway one afternoon fixing his old Ford F-150, covered in grease, singing along to a Johnny Cash song so loud she could hear it two houses over.
He sat there for a second, every part of him screaming that this was a bad idea, that people would talk, that he was too old for this, that he’d just end up hurt again. But then she leaned in a little, and he could smell that coconut shampoo again, and he realized he didn’t care. He reached up, brushing that stray piece of hair off her neck, his thumb grazing the soft skin under her jaw, and she leaned into his touch like she’d been waiting for it.
They sat there for another 20 minutes, no grand gestures, just talking, their shoulders pressed tight together, watching the fireflies blink on and off over the wash. He walked her to her beat-up Toyota Tacoma when they headed back, and she slipped a crumpled scrap of paper into his flannel pocket, her personal cell number scrawled in bright blue ink, with a tiny doodle of a chili bowl next to it. She told him to text her whenever he wanted, whether it was to finally get that booster, or just get a beer, or show her the cedar posts he’d cut for the porch. He tucked the paper deeper into his pocket, watching her pull out of the parking lot, her taillights fading down the dirt road. He pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket, typed a single chili emoji, and hit send before he could overthink it.
