Clay Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service ranger, leaned against a splintered pine post at the annual Maplewood Fire Department fundraiser, sweating through the collar of his well-worn Carhartt tee. He’d been dragged out by his old patrol partner, who’d called him a “hermit who’d rot alone in his cabin if someone didn’t force him to be around human beings once a quarter.” The air smelled like charred bratwurst, cut alfalfa, and OFF! bug spray, the tinny twang of a local country cover band warbling through busted speakers at the far end of the fairground. He’d been actively avoiding the library booth for 45 minutes, ever since he spotted the woman who ran it, the same woman who’d written a scathing response to his letter to the editor three weeks prior, calling his take on the town’s new drag story hour “bitter, out of touch, and weirdly obsessed with what 7 year olds wear to get a free picture book.”
He was mid-sip of lukewarm Pabst when he felt cold liquid splash across the toe of his steel-toe work boot. He looked down, then up, and found Mara Carter, 52, part-time librarian and part-time organic gardener, holding a dented plastic pitcher of amber beer, a sheepish smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid, freckles dusted across her nose and cheeks, a faded red flannel tied around her waist over cutoff denim shorts that showed a faint scar on her left knee from a hiking accident two years prior. “Tripped over that guy’s cowboy boot,” she said, nodding at a drunk guy passed out on a nearby picnic table bench. “Sorry about the boot. I’d offer to pay for a new pair, but I know rangers wear those things until they’re held together with duct tape and sheer stubbornness.”
Clay huffed, half annoyed, half amused, and wiped the beer off his boot with a frayed napkin he pulled from his pocket. She sat down on the bench next to him, close enough that her knee brushed his when she shifted to set the pitcher on the table. He didn’t move away. She smelled like coconut shampoo and lime seltzer, he noticed, and her hands were calloused at the knuckles, stained with faint green smudges of tomato plant sap from her garden that morning. “I saw you signed up for the trail restoration next month,” she said, picking at a splinter on the table. “Figured you’d boycott anything the town council organized, given how much you yell about them on Facebook.”
Clay blinked. He’d posted the sign up form late at night, thought no one paid attention to those threads besides the town council secretary. “I care about the trails,” he said, gruff. “Don’t care who organizes the work.” She laughed, a low, warm sound, and her shoulder pressed against his when she leaned forward to grab a plastic cup of beer. “You care about a lot more than you let on, Bennett. Saw you last week, by the creek behind the library. Spent 10 minutes wiping mud off a lost copy of *Where the Wild Things Are* before you brought it in to the front desk. You didn’t even stop to say hi, just left it on the counter and bolted.”
His face went hot. He’d thought no one was there that day, that he’d snuck in and out before anyone recognized him. That was the thing about Mara, he’d realized over the past few months – she noticed the stuff no one else did, the quiet stuff, the stuff people tried to hide. “Look,” he said, staring at the label of his beer can so he didn’t have to meet her eyes. “I don’t hate the story hour. Not really. My ex left me for a guy who spent every waking minute posting outraged takes on social media, never actually did a damn thing for anyone in this town. When everyone started yelling about the story hour, I just… checked out. Got defensive. Stupid, I know.”
She didn’t say anything for a minute, just sipped her beer. He could feel the heat of her arm pressed against his, her hand resting on the bench an inch from his, the rough wood digging into his thigh. “I get it,” she said finally. “Half the people yelling in support of the story hour haven’t checked out a book from the library in three years. Most of them don’t even know the kids who show up. It’s all performance, for a lot of people. I don’t do it for the likes. I do it because the kid who showed up last month in a sparkly princess dress told me it was the first time he ever felt like he didn’t have to hide what he liked.”
She pulled a crumpled blue raffle ticket from her back pocket, held it out to him. Their fingers brushed when he took it, a sharp, warm tingle running up his arm, and he held on for a beat longer than he should have. “It’s for the fly fishing trip on the Bitterroot, the grand prize,” she said. “I bought it this morning, but I have to cover a shift at the library tomorrow if they draw my name. You deserve it more than I do. I know you’ve been wanting to fish that stretch since they opened it back up last year.”
The band struck up a slow, twangy cover of Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues,” and people started shuffling onto the makeshift dance floor in the grass. She stood, wiped grass off her shorts, and held out her hand. “C’mon, grumpy. I won’t tell any of your hunting buddies you’re dancing with the lady who ruins small town childhoods with drag queens.”
He snort-laughed, a sound he hadn’t made in years, and took her hand, letting her pull him to his feet. She stepped close when they got to the dance floor, her hand resting light on his shoulder, his hand settled on her waist, and they swayed off-beat, his boots scuffing the grass. He stepped on her toe three times in the first two minutes, and she laughed so hard she leaned her forehead against his chest, the vibration of her laugh warm through his tee shirt.
When the fundraiser wrapped up an hour later, the sky streaked pink and orange over the pines, he walked her to her beat-up 1998 Toyota Tacoma, the raffle ticket crumpled tight in his jeans pocket. She leaned in before she climbed in the driver’s seat, kissed him soft on the corner of his mouth, the faint taste of lime seltzer on her lips. “I’m at the library every Wednesday afternoon,” she said, turning the key in the ignition. “Bring me an iced oat milk latte, and we can argue about the story hour some more. Or don’t. I don’t really care, as long as you show up.”
He stood in the gravel parking lot long after her taillights disappeared over the hill, already mentally clearing his schedule for the next Wednesday, reaching for his phone to text his buddy he wouldn’t be able to go golfing that day.
