Dale Harding, 58, retired power lineman with a scar snaking up his left wrist from a 2017 line fire and a permanent scowl reserved for anyone under 45 who calls him “sir”, showed up to the monthly volunteer fire department fish fry alone like he always did. The fundraiser that night was earmarked for families of the Fern Hollow Bridge collapse victims, so the parking lot was packed, the air thick with the smell of fried cod, apple cider vinegar, and cheap lager. He grabbed a can of Iron City from the cooler, nodded at a few guys he’d worked line jobs with back in the 90s, and turned to head for the empty folding table by the port-a-potties when he collided with something soft and warm.
Beer sloshed over the rim of the can, soaking the front of a faded black and red plaid flannel. He steadied the woman with one calloused hand on her elbow, his chest still brushing her shoulder, and blinked when he recognized the hazel eyes crinkling up at him, no anger, just amusement. It was Lila, his ex-wife’s niece, the kid he’d taught to skip stones at the creek behind his old house, the one who’d asked him to come to her high school graduation two years before his wife left him for a 28-year-old roofer. He hadn’t seen her in 12 years, not since the divorce papers were signed and his ex had told every member of her family to never speak to him again.
He stammered an apology, swiping at the beer stain on her flannel with the crumpled napkin he’d stuffed in his jeans pocket, his knuckle brushing the soft curve of her waist through the thin fabric. He yanked his hand back like he’d touched a live 7200-volt line, face heating up, and she laughed, the sound light and bright over the roar of the deep fryer and the fire guys yelling over each other about the latest Steelers draft pick. She was 39 now, he realized, the gap between her front teeth still there, her hair pulled back in a messy braid streaked with a little gray at the temples, work boots caked in mud on her feet. She told him she worked as a large animal vet tech now, lived 20 minutes outside town on a small farm with three goats and a rescue hound, and she’d come to the fish fry specifically because she’d heard he still showed up every month.
That made him freeze. His first thought was that his ex had sent her to hassle him about the old retirement account they’d fought over, but she shook her head, leaning in a little closer so he could hear her over the siren test the guys were running out front, her shoulder pressing against his bicep. She said she’d never bought her aunt’s story about him being a cold, distant bastard, that she remembered how he’d stayed up for 36 hours straight fixing the power line to her family’s farm during the 2010 blizzard, how he’d brought her a brand new tackle box for her 16th birthday when her own dad had forgotten the date entirely.
He fought the tug of warmth in his chest, the part of him that had been closed off for 12 years screaming that this was wrong, that she was his ex’s family, that younger women only wanted one thing from him, that he’d be an idiot to let his guard down. But she asked him about the old 1987 Ford F150 he still drove, noticed the chipped Steelers sticker on his hard hat he still carried in his truck, laughed so hard at his joke about the year the fire department burned the entire batch of fish so bad even the seagulls wouldn’t eat it that she snort-laughed into her beer. He found himself leaning in too, his arm brushing hers every time he reached for his can, his eyes lingering on the freckles across her nose when she talked about the baby goat she’d delivered two days prior.
When the crowd started thinning out around 8, she tilted her head toward the parking lot and asked if he wanted to drive up to the old overlook off Route 28, the one he used to take her family to for Fourth of July fireworks before the divorce. He hesitated for half a second, the voice in his head yelling about how wrong this was, about how the entire town would talk if they saw them together, about how his ex would raise hell if she found out. Then he saw the way she was biting her lower lip, nervous, like she thought he’d say no, and he nodded.
They drove up in his truck, the radio playing old Johnny Cash songs he had on a CD stuck in the player, the windows rolled down, the smell of pine and damp dirt drifting in from the woods lining the road. When they got to the overlook, they sat on the hood of the truck, their shoulders pressed together, watching the pink and orange sunset bleed over the city skyline below. She told him she’d had a crush on him since she was 16, that she’d spent years wondering what had happened to him after the divorce, that she’d finally worked up the courage to come find him after she saw his name on the fundraiser volunteer list online.
His throat went dry. He didn’t say anything for a minute, just stared at the way the sun hit the gray streaks in her hair, then reached over and laced his calloused fingers through hers, her hands rough too, from hauling goats and horses around, matching his. He told her he’d spent 12 years avoiding anyone even close to her age, convinced every younger woman was just looking for someone to pay their bills, convinced he was too broken from the divorce to care about anyone again. She squeezed his hand, didn’t push him to say more, just leaned her head on his shoulder.
They sat there until the sun was fully gone, the city lights twinkling below them, the cool spring air nipping at their cheeks. He drove her back to her beat-up Subaru in the fish fry parking lot, and when she got out of the truck, she leaned in and kissed him softly on the corner of his mouth, not too fast, not too slow, and said she’d call him tomorrow to go fishing at the old creek behind his cabin. He watched her pull out of the parking lot, her hand waving out the window as she turned onto the main road, then reached into the center console, pulled out the pack of peppermints he kept there, and popped one into his mouth, the sharp sweet taste cutting through the leftover beer on his tongue.
