Hank Colton, 58, retired utility lineman with a scar slicing through his left eyebrow and a grudge he’d nursed for 22 years, leaned against the splintered pine picnic table at the annual Maplewood Volunteer Fire Department chili cookoff, twisting the cap off a third Shiner Bock. His knees ached from the week he’d spent helping his neighbor rebuild a fence, and the air smelled like smoked brisket, cumin, and wet asphalt left over from the morning’s quick thunderstorm. He’d spotted Lila Marlow 20 minutes earlier, hovering by the peach cobbler table, and had done his best to stay on the opposite side of the fairground, his jaw tight. Back in 2001, his ex-wife had told him Lila was the one who’d ratted him out for ditching their 10th anniversary dinner to go catfishing with the guys, and he’d barely said two words to her since. His wife had passed three years prior from ovarian cancer, and the grudge had settled into his bones like the arthritis in his hands, familiar, easy to carry.
He was mid-laugh at a story the fire chief was telling about a cat stuck in an oak tree when a shadow fell over the table, and he looked up to see Lila standing there, holding a paper plate piled high with cornbread, one eyebrow raised. She was 52, her dark hair streaked with a single silver band above her left ear, wearing worn jeans and a faded Willie Nelson t-shirt that fit snug across her shoulders, and Hank’s throat went dry before he could stop it. “You still avoiding me, Colton?” she said, her voice low, rough from years of smoking, the same voice he’d once heard singing backup at a local honky tonk when he was 25, before he’d met his wife. He grunted, gesturing to the empty spot on the bench next to him, figuring he could be polite for five minutes. She sat, her knee brushing his under the table, the heat of it seeping through the denim of his work pants, and he shifted away automatically, feeling like he was doing something wrong.
They made small talk first, about the chili, about the fact that she’d moved back to town two months prior after her divorce from a real estate agent in Austin, about the litter of barn cats she’d rescued from the old farm on the edge of town. Then she leaned in, her elbow brushing his bicep, and said, “For the record, I never told your ex you skipped that anniversary dinner. She was meeting her high school boyfriend at the steakhouse that night, and she needed a scapegoat so you wouldn’t ask questions when she got home late.” Hank froze, his beer halfway to his mouth. He’d never considered that, never questioned what his wife had told him, too caught up in being angry at Lila to look for the holes in the story. The anger he’d carried for two decades fizzled fast, replaced by a weird mix of embarrassment and something sharper, hotter, that he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager. He stared at her, at the smudge of peach cobbler on her lower lip, at the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, and he realized he’d been an idiot for 22 years.
The siren for the fire department blared then, cutting through the hum of the crowd, and the chief yelled that there was a small grass fire off County Road 7, everyone who could help should follow. The fairground emptied fast, people grabbing their coolers and their kids, and before Hank could process what was happening, fat raindrops started falling again, cold and fast. He grabbed Lila’s wrist without thinking, pulling her under the awning of the closed general store next to the fairground, their bodies pressed close to stay out of the rain. He could smell her perfume, vanilla mixed with the campfire smoke that clung to her shirt, could feel the beat of her pulse under his fingers where he still held her wrist, and she didn’t pull away. “I always thought you were the most stubborn son of a bitch I ever met,” she said, tilting her head up to look at him, their faces inches apart, “but I also always thought you were the best one.”
Hank didn’t say anything. He’d never been good with words, not when it counted. He brushed the smudge of cobbler off her lip with his thumb, his skin brushing hers, and she leaned into the touch, her hand coming up to rest on his chest, right over the faded fire department logo on his flannel shirt. He kissed her then, slow at first, tentative, like he was scared she’d pull away, like he was scared he was betraying the wife he’d lost, but then her fingers tangled in the gray hair at the nape of his neck, and he let go of all the guilt, all the anger, all the stupid rules he’d been following for decades. The rain beat against the awning, loud enough that no one could see them, could hear them, and for the first time in three years, Hank didn’t feel like he was just going through the motions of living.
When the rain slowed to a drizzle 10 minutes later, he pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, and she laughed, that low rough laugh he’d remembered for 30 years. “You wanna get coffee at the diner down the street?” he said, and she nodded, squeezing his hand when he laced their fingers together. His knuckles were scarred, calloused from 35 years climbing utility poles, and her hand was soft, a little cold from the rain, and it fit in his like it had been made to. They walked down the empty street, the sidewalk glistening with rain, the distant wail of the fire truck siren fading behind them, and Hank didn’t look back.
