Clay Bennett, 58, retired electric lineman with a scar snaking up his left forearm from a 2019 transformer blowout, leaned against the splintered wooden rail of the town’s 4th of July beer tent, swishing lukewarm lager around a dented plastic cup. He’d shown up only to shut up his former foreman, who’d been badgering him for three months to stop holing up in his woodworking shop and “act like a living human instead of a ghost haunting his own garage.” His wedding band, worn thin at the edges from 32 years of marriage and 4 more of fidgeting with it after Carol died, dug into his finger as he curled his hand around the cup. He’d already dodged three different widows from the church who’d tried to corner him to talk about potlucks, and he was 10 minutes from bailing entirely when he felt a soft shoulder bump his bicep, and smelled jasmine cut with diesel and horse shampoo.
He turned, and blinked. It was Lila, Carol’s youngest cousin, the kid who used to crash their summer cookouts to steal potato salad and beg him to lift her up onto the back of Carol’s old quarter horse. She was 47 now, silver streaks cutting through dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, calloused vet’s hands shoved in the pockets of cutoff Carhartts, scuffed work boots caked in mud peeking out below the hem. She’d moved back to town six months prior to take over the small animal clinic on Main Street, and he’d avoided her every time he’d seen her at the grocery store, too awkward to make small talk, too stubborn to admit he’d noticed how her smile still crinkled the corners of her eyes the exact same way Carol’s did.
“Still wearing that ratty Ohio State hat, I see,” she said, grinning, nodding at the faded cap perched on his head, the brim frayed where Carol used to yank it down over his eyes when he made bad jokes. He grunted, half amused, half off guard, and gestured at the cooler next to him. She reached for a seltzer at the same time he reached for another beer, and their knuckles brushed, warm and rough against each other, for a beat longer than was strictly polite. He pulled his hand back fast, like he’d touched a live wire, and she laughed, low and throaty, no trace of the squeaky teen he remembered.
They talked for 45 minutes, leaning against the rail, peanut shells crunching under their boots as the county cover band slurred through old Johnny Cash deep cuts. She teased him about tripping over a curb outside the hardware store the previous winter, he teased her about the time she tried to ride a goat at the 1998 fair and landed in a pile of cow patties. He caught himself leaning in closer than he should, so he could hear her over the noise of the crowd, his shoulder pressed to hers, the heat of her seeping through his worn cotton t-shirt. A kid darted between them, chasing a runaway golden retriever, and he grabbed her forearm to keep her from getting knocked over, his calloused palm wrapping around the soft skin just above her wrist. He didn’t let go right away. She didn’t ask him to.
The first firework boomed overhead, red and gold lighting up the sky, and the crowd surged forward, jostling them. She stumbled, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her tight against his chest to keep her from being trampled by a group of drunk college kids home for the holiday. He could feel the steady thud of her heart against his ribs, smell the cherry seltzer on her breath when she tilted her head up to look at him, her eyes glinting in the light from the fireworks. For half a second he felt sick, guilty, like he was betraying Carol, like every old biddy in the tent was staring at them, whispering. Then she smiled, slow, and brushed a strand of hair off his forehead, and the guilt melted away, replaced by a warm, thrumming excitement he hadn’t felt since he was 20 years old, picking Carol up for their first date in his beat up 1987 Ford truck.
The fireworks ended 20 minutes later, and he still hadn’t let go of her waist. She leaned in, and kissed him quick, soft, her lips chapped from the summer heat, tasting like cherry and lime and the cheap seltzer she’d been drinking. He kissed her back, slow, ignoring the wolf whistle from his former foreman across the tent, ignoring the little voice in his head that said this was wrong, that Lila was family, that he should be ashamed.
When they pulled apart, she laced her fingers through his, rough calloused hand fitting perfectly in his. He offered to drive her home, and she nodded, swinging their joined hands between them as they walked through the emptying fairgrounds to his truck, the same 1987 Ford, still running after 36 years. He opened the passenger door for her, and she paused before climbing in, brushing her thumb over the worn wedding band on his finger. “Carol would’ve kicked your ass if you waited another month to make a move,” she said, grinning. He laughed, loud, the first real laugh he’d had in years, and closed the door behind her. He climbed in the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the radio flickered on to Merle Haggard’s “That’s the Way Love Goes,” the same song he and Carol danced to at their wedding. He pulled out of the parking lot, rolling the window down to let the warm summer air blow in, and didn’t look back.
