Silas “Sye” Pritchard, 61, retired high-voltage lineman, had shown up to the VFW fish fry every Friday for 11 years straight, even when his knee ached so bad he had to use a cane, even when the pandemic restricted capacity to 10 people and they served the cod out of a folding table by the back door. His worst flaw was a stubborn refusal to let anyone get close enough to see the parts of him that weren’t rough around the edges: he’d turned down three different neighbors’ offers to bring him soup after his 2022 knee replacement, had blocked his ex-wife’s number after she texted him a birthday greeting last year, and had deliberately avoided Mara Hale for 12 whole years, ever since the night of his best friend Joe’s wake, when they’d gotten drunk on cheap bourbon in the funeral home parking lot and kissed until his lips were chapped.
The VFW smelled like fried cod, white vinegar, and old cigarette smoke that had seeped into the wood paneling 40 years prior, the jukebox in the corner spitting out Johnny Cash deep cuts at a volume just loud enough to drown out the bickering of the old guys playing pool in the back. Sye was third in line for dessert when he caught the scent of coconut lotion over the grease, and his shoulders tensed before he even looked up. Mara was behind the table, silver streaks running through the auburn hair she’d pulled back in a messy bun, her faded green sweater slipping off one shoulder as she leaned across to hand a slice of peach pie to a 92-year-old WWII vet who’d been coming to the fry longer than Sye had been alive. She brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face with the back of her hand, and her gaze locked with his, for half a second she froze, the pie plate halfway between her and the vet, then she smiled, the same crinkles around her eyes he remembered from camping trips with Joe back in 2010.
He’d planned on grabbing his lemon meringue pie and bolting to his usual table in the far corner, the one with the wobbly leg that no one else wanted, but when he stepped up to the table, she held the slice out to him, and their fingers brushed when he took it. He felt the rough callus on her index finger, the same one she’d gotten from 30 years of planting tomato plants in her backyard garden, and neither of them pulled away for two full beats, the hum of the jukebox fading for a second in his ears. “Extra meringue,” she said, her voice low, like she was sharing a secret. “I remember you hate when they skimp on it.”
He mumbled a thanks, turned to walk away, but before he could get three steps, she called his name, holding up a paper container of coleslaw. “You hate the runny stuff they serve on the line,” she said, walking around the table to hand it to him, her boots scuffing the linoleum. She pulled out the chair across from his wobbly table before he could protest, sat down, and folded her hands on the surface, her nails chipped the way they always were, no fancy polish.
For 10 minutes they made small talk: she asked about his knee, he asked about her grandson’s little league team, they teased each other about the time Joe had fallen out of a fishing boat on their 2009 camping trip and had to ride home in a wet flannel, complaining the whole way that his socks were soaked. The guilt was gnawing at him the whole time, a tight knot in his stomach: this was Joe’s wife, his best friend, the woman he’d promised to look out for if anything ever happened to Joe, and here he was, sitting across from her, thinking about how soft her lips had been that night in the parking lot. He almost stood up to leave, the shame burning at the back of his throat, when she leaned forward, her elbows on the table, and said, “Joe knew, you know. He used to joke that if he ever kicked the bucket before me, you were the only guy he’d trust not to be an idiot and mess me around.”
Sye blinked, his fork halfway to his mouth, the pie crust crumbs sticking to his thumb. “Knew what?” he said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.
“That we were sweet on each other,” she said, laughing, the sound warm, no bite to it. “You think he didn’t notice how you’d bring me extra fresh peaches every summer when you’d go picking down in West Virginia? You think he didn’t see how I’d save you the last slice of pie every cookout? He told me, two months before he had that heart attack, that if I ever got the chance to be happy with you, I shouldn’t let your stupid stubbornness get in the way.”
The knot in his stomach unraveled, fast, the shame melting into something softer, warmer, the kind of feeling he hadn’t let himself have since his ex-wife left 8 years prior. He’d spent 12 years hating himself for that kiss, thinking he’d betrayed the only real friend he’d ever had, and all along Joe had known, had even wanted it. He reached across the table, his calloused lineman’s hand covering hers, the scar across his left bicep from a 2017 line fault pulling tight as he moved, and she didn’t pull away, laced her fingers through his, her palm warm against his.
By the time the fish fry wrapped up, the sun had gone down, the October air sharp with the smell of fallen maple leaves and wood smoke from the houses down the street. They walked side by side to her pickup truck, their shoulders brushing every few steps, no need to talk. When they got to her truck, she leaned against the door, looking up at him, her eyes glinting in the glow of the streetlight at the edge of the parking lot. He brushed a crumb of meringue off her lower lip with his thumb, then leaned down and kissed her, slow, no rush, no bourbon fumes clouding the moment, no guilt hanging over his head.
He opened her truck door for her, already planning to bring her his favorite 1972 Iron City beer can from his collection to show her tomorrow morning.
