Clay Bennett, 58, retired wildland firefighter, leans against a splintered pine picnic table at the local fire department’s summer fundraiser, a lukewarm IPA in one calloused hand. He’d spent the morning yanking a rusted alternator out of his 1978 F-150, and the faint smell of motor oil still clings to the cuffs of his work jeans. His biggest flaw, the one his ex-wife had screamed about during their divorce 22 years prior, is that he holds grudges until they rot in his bones. He’d avoided every function that might draw his ex’s family for two decades, but the FD’s smoked brisket plates were too good to pass up, and he’d figured he could stick to the edge of the crowd, avoid eye contact, leave before anyone recognized him.
That plan falls apart when all the other tables fill up, and Mara Carter drops her canvas tote on the seat two spots down from him. She’s 54, his ex’s first cousin, the little sister of the guy he’d punched in the jaw at their 2001 Fourth of July cookout over a dumb joke about his ex’s wandering eye. Clay tenses, already reaching for his keys to leave, when she bends to grab a napkin she’d dropped, her knuckle brushing the scuffed toe of his work boot. She looks up, recognition flickers across her face, and she freezes for half a second before she smirks. “Clay Bennett. I thought you bailed for Alaska after the divorce.”
He grunts, shifting his weight so his shoulder isn’t angled away from her quite so sharply. “Been here three years. Fix trucks. Stay out of trouble.” She sits, leaning forward to grab a brisket plate from the volunteer walking by, and the neck of her faded 2018 Stagecoach tee gapes a little, showing a faint silver sunflower tattoo at the base of her throat. He’d always written her off as the spoiled party girl of the family, the one who’d shown up to his wedding drunk and spilled red wine on his mom’s tablecloth, but now he notices the silver streaks threading through her dark wavy hair, the smudge of ink on her wrist from stamping library books, the faint laugh lines fanning out from the corners of her hazel eyes. The air smells like hickory smoke, citronella, and the coconut sunscreen she’d slathered on her shoulders, and Clay’s chest feels tight, half from the old anger he still carries for her family, half from a jolt of attraction he hasn’t felt since his last date fizzled out three years prior.
A group of kids chasing a golden retriever barrel past the table, and one slams into Mara’s elbow, sending her half-full cherry hard seltzer spilling across the front of Clay’s jeans. She yelps, grabbing a handful of napkins from the dispenser, and leans over to dab at the wet fabric, her palm brushing the top of his thigh by accident. He flinches, not from discomfort, but from the zing of heat that shoots up his spine, and he catches himself before he tells her to stop. She’s laughing, apologizing, her face pink with embarrassment, and she admits her brother, the guy Clay punched, died last spring of pancreatic cancer, that she’s been raising his 16-year-old daughter alone ever since, that she works at the town library now, spends her weekends restoring vintage romance paperbacks. He learns she’d known his ex was cheating on him three months before he found out, that she’d tried to tell him once but had been too scared of her cousin’s temper, that she’d always thought he got a raw deal.
Clay feels the old, hard knot of anger in his gut soften a little, and for the first time all night, he doesn’t feel the urge to run. The local cover band strikes up a slow, twangy 90s country track, and Mara nudges his arm with her elbow, her skin warm where it touches his. “You ever dance at these things?” He snorts, says he hasn’t danced since his wedding, but she stands, tugging his wrist until he follows her to the patch of dirt they’re using as a dance floor. Her hand fits in his like it was made for it, calloused from turning book pages, and when she steps close, her shoulder brushes the front of his tee, he can feel the heat radiating off her skin. She tilts her head up to look at him, her eyes dark in the string light glow, and she says, quiet enough only he can hear, “I always thought you were the hottest guy in the family. Even when you were screaming at my brother.”
They dance until the song ends, until the volunteers start folding up the picnic tables and turning off the string lights. He walks her to her beat-up Subaru, his boots scuffing the gravel parking lot, and when they stop at her driver’s side door, she leans in, kissing him quick, soft, her lip gloss tasting like cherry and seltzer. He doesn’t pull away. She climbs into the car, rolls down the window, and tosses him a grin before she turns the key. “My place has a fire pit in the backyard. Bring the s’mores supplies tomorrow. 7pm.” He nods, standing there long after her taillights have vanished around the corner, sipping the last of his warm IPA, and he brushes a finger across his bottom lip, still feeling the faint press of her mouth against his.
