Ray Voss, 58, retired county lineman, has carried a grudge so heavy for six years it’s worn a permanent furrow between his brows. His ex-wife left him for a 38-year-old realtor who wore boat shoes even in snow, and ever since, he’s defaulted to opposing anything she supports, no matter how trivial. He’s at the small-town July food truck rally outside Dayton, manning the beer tent ticket booth out of obligation to his late dad, who launched the event back in 1992. The air sits thick enough to sip, sharp with the smell of fried onion rings and charcoal, country radio bleeding low from the tent’s crackling speakers, sweat sticking his faded work shirt to his back.
He’s half-asleep on his folding chair when she steps up to the booth, and he blinks hard like he’s seeing a mirage. Clara Bennett, 49, the local librarian who led the months-long fight to keep the rally’s post-event drag karaoke from getting banned by the city council. Ray signed the opposition petition two months prior, just because his ex had left three long, ranty Facebook posts urging everyone to support the event. Clara wears a cutoff denim shirt unbuttoned one notch too low, sweat beading at the hollow of her throat, a sunflower tattoo curling around her left forearm, a frozen lemonade sweating in her grip. She smirks when she reads his name tag, nods at the stack of petitions peeking out of the cash box where he stashed them after picking them up to throw away earlier. “Saw your signature on the anti-karaoke list,” she says, voice low and warm, no bite, just amusement.
Ray’s face goes hot, and he fumbles the stack of ticket stubs he’s holding, half of them spilling to the ground between them. She bends to grab them, and their hands brush when they both reach for the same crumpled stub. Her skin is cool from the frozen drink, calloused at the fingertips from decades of turning book pages, his rough from 32 years climbing power poles in ice and rain. The contact zips up his arm so fast he flinches like he touched a live wire. He mumbles an apology, shoves the stubs back into the box, avoids her eye. “Didn’t think anyone paid attention to those,” he says, gruff.
“Half the town paid attention,” she says, leaning her hip against the edge of the booth, so close he can smell coconut perfume and the faint, sweet scent of old paper on her clothes. “I know your ex wrote three of the public comments in favor. Word travels slow here.” She doesn’t tease him for it, just watches him, hazel eyes flecked with gold, no judgment. Ray finds himself laughing, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months. He can’t remember the last time someone didn’t take his stubborn grudge personally.
A group of kids running after an ice cream truck barrels past the booth, one of them slamming into the side hard enough to knock a full pitcher of sweet tea off the counter. It splatters across Ray’s jeans and the front of Clara’s shirt, dark splotches blooming across the light wash denim. Ray grabs a stack of napkins, leans over the booth, dabs at the wet spot on her arm first before he thinks better of it. They’re so close he can count the freckles across her nose, can hear the huff of her laugh when he freezes, half-expecting her to step back. She doesn’t. She just takes a napkin from his hand, dabs at the spot on his thigh, her knuckles brushing the denim so light he almost thinks he imagined it.
He fights the urge to lean in, confused by the pull in his chest, disgusted with himself for even looking at her. He’s supposed to hate everything she stands for right now, supposed to skip the karaoke entirely like he told his buddies he would. But when she invites him to come by after he’s done tearing down the booth, says he might be surprised how much fun it is, he doesn’t say no. He just nods, tells her he’s got to stack the coolers first, it’ll take an hour. She says she’ll help, no rush.
They finish tearing down as the sun dips low, painting the sky pink and tangerine over the surrounding cornfields, the hum of cicadas rising over the fading noise of the food trucks. They walk to the park pavilion where the karaoke is set up, their shoulders brushing every few steps, no pressure to talk. The first performer is Earl Henderson, 72, retired high school shop teacher who Ray fished with last spring, wearing a floor-length sequined gold dress, belting Johnny Cash’s *Folsom Prison Blues* so loud the picnic tables shake. The whole crowd screams along, holding up beer cans, and Ray stares, shocked, laughing so hard his sides hurt. Clara nudges his shoulder, grinning. “Told you it wasn’t the freak show you thought it was.”
He buys her a beer, their fingers lacing together for half a second when he hands it to her, and this time he doesn’t pull away. He admits he only signed the petition because his ex texted him begging him to support the event, and he’s spent six years doing the exact opposite of whatever she says. Clara snorts, takes a long sip of beer, says that’s the dumbest thing she’s ever heard, but she gets it, resentment is a heavy coat to wear, easy to get used to even when it’s too hot.
They stay for three more songs, Ray even getting pulled up to sing Merle Haggard’s *Mama Tried* with the emcee, earning a roar of applause from the crowd. When they walk out to the parking lot, the karaoke noise fading behind them, the air cool now that the sun’s down, Clara stops next to her beat-up Ford Ranger, turns to him, and kisses him first on the cheek, then on the mouth. She tastes like cheap lager and cherry lollipop, her hand curling into the collar of his shirt, and he doesn’t overthink it, doesn’t think about the ex, or the petition, or the stupid grudge he’s been carrying for half a decade. He just kisses her back, one hand resting light on her waist, the other brushing the edge of the sunflower tattoo on her forearm. She pulls back, grinning, says she’s got a bottle of 12-year bourbon back at her place, asks if he wants to come over. He nods, doesn’t hesitate, follows her to the passenger side of the truck, his boots crunching loose gravel under his feet.
