Roman Voss, 62, retired commercial billboard painter, swipes flecks of gold enamel off the knee of his frayed Carhartts as he hands the custom event sign off to the local fire chief. The air hums with late July humidity, thick with the smell of grilled bratwurst and citronella candles, kids darting between picnic tables with glow sticks looped around their wrists. He’d planned to drop the sign and hightail it straight home to his hound dog and half-restored 1978 Honda CB750, but the chief shoves a cold can of Pabst into his hand before he can leave, so he leans against the furthest picnic table to chug it fast, out of the way of the crowd.
He spots her before she spots him. Clara Marlow, 58, his ex-wife’s first cousin, the woman he’d only spoken to a handful of times at holiday dinners back when he was married, the one who’d sent him a short, kind handwritten note after his wife left 12 years prior that he’d never answered, too proud and too raw to admit he’d appreciated it. She’s leaning against the beer tent pole now, curly auburn hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, wearing a faded 1970s Fleetwood Mac tee and cutoff denim shorts, laughing as a toddler hands her a dandelion. She’d lived in Chicago for 30 years, he’d heard, moved back three months prior to take care of her mom, who’d had a stroke.
His first instinct is to duck behind the cooler next to him. Messing with his ex’s family is the kind of small town drama he’s spent the last decade avoiding, the kind of gossip that would spread faster than a hayfield fire in August. But she lifts her head, catches his eye, and grins before he can move, walking over before he can think of an excuse to leave.
She stops so close he can smell the coconut sunscreen she’s wearing, the faint tang of cold rosé on her breath, her woven sandal brushing the toe of his scuffed work boot by accident when she shifts her weight. “Roman Voss. I’d know that scar across your left knuckle anywhere. You still crash your motorcycles every other summer?” She nods at the faint white line, the leftover of a 2010 crash he’d told her about at a family Christmas, when he’d been too drunk to lie about falling off a ladder.
Condensation from his beer can drips down his wrist, cold against his sun-warmed skin. He can hear the crackle of the charcoal grill behind her, the distant wail of a fire truck heading out on a call, the low strum of Tom Petty playing through the tent speakers. He smirks, leaning back against the table, and his bicep brushes her shoulder. “Only when I’m trying to show off. I thought you swore you’d never move back to this hick town unless someone paid you six figures to put up with the winter ice.”
She laughs, a low, rough sound he remembers from that same Christmas, and leans in closer, so her shoulder presses fully to his arm, no accidental brush this time. “Turns out my mom’s bad knees and the library paying me to run their used book sale are worth the ice. For the record, I always thought you were way too interesting to be stuck with my cousin. She never got that you painted those billboards because you loved it, not because you couldn’t get a better job.”
The comment lands soft, no bite, just a quiet understanding he hasn’t felt from anyone in years. The part of him that’s spent 12 years building walls, that turns down neighbors’ casseroles and avoids holiday invites, that tells himself he’s better off alone, squirms uncomfortably, fighting the warm pull of desire low in his gut. He’d thought about her more than he’d ever admit back when he was married, wondered what it would be like to talk to her without his ex hovering, to ask about the pottery she used to post about on Facebook, to see what her calloused clay-stained fingers would feel like against his. It felt wrong then, feels a little wrong now, like he’s breaking some unspoken rule, but he doesn’t care enough to step away.
He takes a last sip of his beer, sets the empty can on the table next to him, and asks if she wants to get out of here. He’s got the CB750 half torn apart in his workshop, he says, and the diner on the edge of town is still open, selling soft serve vanilla with rainbow sprinkles until 10. She says yes before he finishes the sentence, lacing her fingers through his when they walk past the cluster of local regulars by the grill, not caring who sees, not caring what anyone says.
He opens the passenger door of his beat up 2001 Ford F150 for her, and she slides in, setting her half-empty glass of rosé in the cup holder, reaching over to turn up the Tom Petty song playing on the radio. He gets in the driver’s seat, turns the key, and the engine rumbles to life, the cool air from the AC hitting his sunburned cheeks. She rests her hand light on his thigh as he pulls out of the parking lot, heading toward the diner, the glow of the beer garden’s string lights fading in the rearview mirror.
