Clay Hollister leaned against the scuffed oak bar of The Rusty Spur, boot heel propped on the lower rail, half-empty frosted mug of Pabst sweating in his grip. He’d been dragged to the school district fundraiser by his old fishing buddy, Tom, who’d swore the board was reconsidering cutting the wilderness education program Clay had run for 18 years before they axed it two years prior. Clay still had the stack of rejection emails saved in his inbox, still avoided the grocery store on days he knew Mark Voss, the board president, shopped there. He’d written off everyone associated with that vote without a second thought, a habit he’d picked up after his wife died 7 years ago, a lazy way to keep the world small and predictable.
The bar reeked of fried pickles and peanut shells, jukebox thumping Johnny Cash loud enough to rattle the neon beer signs strung above the pool tables. A woman bumped his elbow hard enough to slosh seltzer down the sleeve of his faded forest service flannel, and he tensed, ready to snap, until he looked down. It was Elara Voss, Mark’s wife, clay crusted under the edges of her short fingernails, gray streaks threading through the dark hair she’d pulled back in a messy braid, flannel tied around her waist over tight denim and scuffed work boots. She didn’t smell like the fancy rose perfume the other country club wives wore, she smelled like lavender and kiln ash, sharp and warm at the same time.
She mumbled an apology, grabbing a handful of rough bar napkins and leaning in to dab at the wet spot on his sleeve, her forearm brushing the scar on his bicep he’d gotten from a falling pine in ‘07. He froze, half ready to step back, half ready to let her stay. “I know who you are,” she said, holding eye contact longer than polite, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, no trace of the smugness he’d always assumed she’d carry as the board president’s wife. “I fought for your program. Mark and the rest of the board outvoted me 5-2. I’ve been trying to get enough signatures to bring it back for six months.”
Clay blinked, the anger he’d carried for two years fizzling at the edges, confusion taking its place. He’d spent so long lumping her in with her husband he’d never bothered to ask where she stood. He nodded, motioning the bartender over to get her a fresh seltzer, and she slid onto the bar stool next to him, their knees brushing under the counter. Neither moved away.
She told him she’d been leaving jars of wild blackberry jam on his back porch all summer, the ones he’d assumed were from his 82-year-old neighbor Mabel, that she hiked the same trail behind his subdivision every morning at 6, always saw him walking his old hound dog Hank, never said hi because she thought he hated her. She showed him the scar on her jaw, from a horse accident when she was 16, the same shape as the one on his forearm, and he laughed, a rough, rusty sound he didn’t make often these days.
When the crowd got too loud, she nodded toward the empty booth in the back, tucked behind a stack of old beer signs, and he followed. The vinyl of the booth was cracked and sticky, the low light turning her cheeks pink, and when she leaned in to tell him about the grant she was applying for to fund the program, her breath fanned over his neck, and he had to fight the urge to tilt his head toward her. He’d spent so long closing himself off to anything that didn’t involve hiking or fixing up his old truck, the pull of her, warm and sharp and interested in the things he cared about, made his chest feel tight, half disgust at himself for even considering it, half desire so sharp it made his fingers tingle. Everyone in town thought she was still happily married to Mark, everyone would talk if they saw them tucked back here together, and the thrill of that taboo made his pulse pick up.
They talked for two hours, until the fundraiser crowd thinned out, until his beer was warm and her seltzer was flat. He walked her out to her beat up pickup truck, the night air crisp enough to make his nose run, crickets chirping in the grass next to the parking lot. She paused with her hand on the truck door, then leaned in, kissing his cheek first, soft, then his mouth, tasting like blackberry jam and lime seltzer, her hand coming up to rest on his chest, right over his heart. He didn’t pull away. He kissed her back, slow, his hand brushing the edge of her braid, the crowd inside the bar long forgotten, the grudge he’d carried for two years gone like smoke.
She pulled back, grinning, and reached into the cab of her truck, pulling out a small hand-thrown pottery mug, etched with a tiny pine tree around the rim, still a little warm from being tucked in her tote bag. “For your morning coffee,” she said, handing it to him. “Come by my studio next Saturday. We can draft the new program proposal together. And bring Hank. He likes the peanut butter treats I keep by the door.”
He nodded, holding the mug in one hand, the cold glass of his half-finished beer in the other, watching her taillights fade down the road. Hank, curled up in the bed of his own truck, lifted his head and huffed, and Clay smiled, running his thumb over the raised pine tree etched into the mug. He unlocked his truck door, set the mug carefully on the passenger seat, and climbed in, turning the key in the ignition, the radio flicking on to a Johnny Cash song he’d heard a hundred times before, sounding better than it had in years.
