Ray Voss is 58, retired lineman, left knee held together with two titanium screws, a scar snaking up his forearm from a 2007 line fire that still aches when the humidity climbs above 70 percent. He’s worked the Knox County Fair barbecue tent every August for 22 years, same spot by the Ferris wheel, same rub recipe he swiped from his granddaddy, same no-nonsense rule about no TikTokers loitering by the brisket smoker to film “grilling hacks” for their feeds. He’d spent the whole day flipping 12-pound briskets over hickory coals, sweat soaking through the back of his faded John Deere ball cap, grease streaked across his Carhartt apron, when the dry mouth hit him hard enough to make him abandon his post mid-flip, tossing the tongs to his 16-year-old grandson with a gruff “don’t burn it” before trundling toward the craft beer tent at the far end of the midway.
The line was short, most fairgoers crowded around the demolition derby stands for the final heat, the roar of engines and crinkle of cotton candy wrappers mixing with the sharp, hoppy smell drifting from the tent. He leaned against the splintered wooden counter, yelled “pale ale, cold as you got it” over the noise, and held out a crumpled five dollar bill. A hand wrapped around the frosty plastic cup before he could grab it, soft, calloused at the fingertips from what he’d later learn was years of rock climbing, and when their skin brushed, a jolt shot up his arm that had nothing to do with the old electrical burns on his palms. He looked up, ready to snap at whoever was holding his beer hostage, and froze. The woman behind the counter had a thin, pale scar snaking across her left wrist, the exact one he’d patched up with a dirty bandana and a lot of bad jokes after she’d flipped his four wheeler on a hunting trail when she was 12. “Clara?” he said, disbelieving. She grinned, the same gap between her two front teeth she’d had back then, and leaned over the counter far enough that he could smell citrus shampoo and fried Oreos on her clothes. “Took you long enough to recognize me, old man. Dad always said you were half blind without your work glasses.”
He stood there for a full 10 seconds, brain short-circuiting between the memory of a pigtailed kid covered in mud begging him to teach her to shoot a BB gun, and the woman in front of him, cutoff flannel slung over a faded Lynyrd Skynyrd band tee, sun freckles across her nose, a silver nose ring glinting in the string lights strung above the tent. He’d been best friends with her dad Jake for 30 years, had held his hand in the hospital after the crane collapse that killed him in 2013, had mailed Clara birthday checks every year after she moved to Portland for college, had never once thought of her as anything other than Jake’s kid. But now she was laughing, asking about his bad knee, the one he’d torn pulling power lines after the 2011 tornado, the one she’d sat with him on the couch icing for three hours while they watched old John Wayne Westerns when she was 16. He found himself leaning against the counter longer than he should have, his beer sweating through the paper napkin in his hand, ignoring the texts from his grandson blowing up his flip phone asking when he was coming back to the smoker. Every time she leaned in to hear him over the noise of the derby, her shoulder brushed his, her breath warm against his ear, and he had to fight the urge to tuck a strand of her chestnut hair behind her ear.
He left after 20 minutes, mumbled an excuse about the brisket, and spent the rest of the night snapping at his grandson for no reason, his skin still buzzing from where their fingers had brushed. He felt sick, half of him furious that he was even thinking about Jake’s kid that way, like he was betraying the last promise he’d made to his friend to look out for her, the other half replaying the way she’d bit her lip when he told her about the time he’d gotten her dad arrested for public intoxication at a Skynyrd concert in 1998. He’d planned to leave the fair as soon as the tent closed at 9, avoid her entirely, go home to his empty house and drink bourbon alone like he did every other Saturday night. But when he walked out of the barbecue tent, she was leaning against the side of his beat-up 2004 F150, sipping a cherry seltzer, waiting for him. “I close up the beer tent in an hour,” she said, before he could say anything. “Meet me by the west gate. I want to go up to the overlook. The one you and dad used to take me to for Fourth of July fireworks.” He wanted to say no, wanted to tell her he was too old, that it wasn’t right, that people would talk. But she was looking at him like she already knew he’d say yes, and he nodded before he could think better of it.
The fair was winding down by the time she locked up the tent, most of the rides shut off, the food vendors packing up their grills, the sky dark purple and streaked with the last of the tangerine sunset. They drove up the rutted dirt road to the overlook in silence, the radio playing old Johnny Cash deep cuts, the crunch of gravel under the tires the only other sound. He parked at the edge of the cliff, the glow of the fair lights spread out below them like a pile of broken Christmas lights, and they sat on the tailgate, their legs pressed together through the thin fabric of their jeans. She told him she’d moved back to Knoxville three months prior, got a job as a park ranger, had been asking around about him for weeks. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 16,” she said, quiet, like she was afraid to say it out loud. “Used to tell my mom I was gonna marry you when I grew up. She thought I was crazy.” He felt his chest tighten, all the guilt he’d been carrying all day warring with the warm, tight feeling in his stomach he hadn’t felt since before his divorce 8 years prior. “I’m 24 years older than you,” he said, rough. “Your dad would kill me if he was here.” She laughed, soft, and laced her fingers through his, her hand small and warm in his calloused one. “Dad told me the week before he died that if I ever found a guy half as good as you, I should hold onto him. Said you were the only man he ever trusted not to break my heart.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time, just sat there holding her hand, listening to the crickets chirp in the oak trees below them, the distant sound of the fair’s final firework show booming up the hill. She leaned in slow, so slow he had time to pull away if he wanted to, and kissed him, the taste of cherry seltzer and hops on her lips, her hair brushing his cheek. He kissed her back, his hand coming up to cup her jaw, the rough scar on his forearm catching on the soft skin of her neck. For the first time in years, since his ex wife had packed her bags and left him for a guy who taught spin classes and wore Lululemon every day, he didn’t feel like he was too broken, too old, too stuck in his ways to be wanted. He didn’t care that the few people left at the fair might look up and see them, didn’t care that his old line crew buddies would tease him for months when they found out, didn’t care about any of the stupid rules he’d spent the last decade living by. He tangled his calloused fingers in her hair, and for the first time in 12 years, he didn’t feel guilty for wanting something he thought he never deserved.
