Ray Voss, 58, retired power lineman, leaned against the scuffed Formica bar of The Rusty Spur, nursing a lukewarm Bud Light. He’d sworn off town events three years prior, right after his wife Karen’s funeral, but his old line crew buddy had begged him to show up for the volunteer fire department fundraiser, said they were short on bodies for silent auction setup. His left forearm bore a thick, silvery scar from a 2018 ice storm repair, the day he’d spent 14 hours up a utility pole in 20-degree weather to get the whole west side of town back online. His biggest flaw, one he’d only admitted to himself last month when he spent three straight days talking to his old hunting dog instead of answering his daughter’s calls, was that he’d convinced himself he was already done with the parts of life that felt like a risk.
The jukebox blared Johnny Cash’s *Folsom Prison Blues* over the din of hooting locals, fried pickle grease hanging thick in the air, when she walked over. Clara Bennett, 47, the high school English teacher who’d taught both his kids, fresh off a messy divorce from the town’s former football coach that had the local gossip mill running nonstop for six months. She was wearing a faded gray flannel rolled to her elbows, scuffed work boots, a white tank top peeking out at the collar, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid. He’d seen her at the grocery store a half dozen times in the last year, always looked away before she could catch him staring, told himself it was wrong to even notice her, that the age gap and shared small-town history made it off limits.
She leaned in close to be heard over the noise, her shoulder brushing the scar on his forearm, and he flinched so hard he sloshed beer over the edge of his bottle. “Sorry,” she yelled, grinning, the corners of her hazel eyes crinkling, vanilla and pine soap curling off her collar and cutting through the bar’s beer-and-grease smell. “I was gonna ask if you knew who’s running the chainsaw raffle table, I’ve been trying to bid on that Stihl for 20 minutes.”
Her hip pressed to his thigh when she reached past him for a stack of napkins on the bar, the heat of her seeping through the worn denim of his jeans, and he had to clear his throat before he could answer. “Back corner, by the pool tables. Guy in the red fire department hoodie, name’s Jake, he was on my crew for two years before he switched over to the fire department.”
She thanked him, but didn’t move away, just leaned against the bar next to him, nodding at the scar on his arm. “That from the ice storm? I remember that week, we had no power for 10 days, my ex spent the whole time complaining he couldn’t watch football.”
Ray laughed, a rough, rusty sound he hadn’t pulled out in months, and told her the story of the pole shifting under his feet, the live wire grazing his arm, how he’d had to wrap it in duct tape and finish the job before he went to the ER. She listened, leaning in closer every time someone yelled past them, her arm brushing his every few seconds, no apology, no pulling away like she was uncomfortable. He spent the whole time fighting two conflicting thoughts in his head: one, that she was the most interesting person he’d talked to in years, that he could sit and listen to her make fun of her ex’s terrible grilling skills for hours, and two, that every person in the bar was watching them, that the gossip mill would be on fire by morning, that he was too old, too boring, too set in his ways to be doing this.
When the emcee got on the mic to announce the 50/50 raffle, Clara cursed under her breath, saying she’d left her ticket in her purse slung over the bar stool next to him. He reached for it, his hand brushing hers when she went for it at the same time, their fingers lacing for three full seconds, the rough callus on her index finger from grading papers rubbing against the callus on his thumb from 30 years of gripping lineman pliers. No one was looking, everyone was staring at the emcee holding up the giant check, but Ray felt that spark, the same flutter in his chest he’d gotten when he first kissed Karen at the drive-in in 1987, no pressure, no overthinking, just warm, bright want.
Her number won. She cheered, jumping a little, her hand landing on his bicep and staying there, squeezing when the emcee called her name to come up. When she came back, half the prize money stuffed in her flannel pocket, she looked at him, head tilted, and said she was starving, that the bar’s burger special was actually way better than it had any right to be, if he wanted to stick around for one after the fundraiser wrapped up.
He didn’t even hesitate. Didn’t think about the gossip, didn’t think about the fact he’d planned to be home by 8 to watch his old western reruns, didn’t think about the voice in his head that had been telling him for three years he didn’t get to have nice things anymore. He just nodded, said he’d buy the fries.
The fundraiser wrapped up 20 minutes later, the crowd thinning out, the October air cold enough to make his nose run when they walked out to the parking lot. Her elbow bumped his every other step, her shoulder brushing his, no awkward space between them like there was with everyone else he talked to these days. He unlocked his beat up 2019 Ford F-150, held the passenger door open for her, and she paused on the step, turning to smile up at him, her hand resting light on the scar on his forearm, warm through the thin fabric of his flannel shirt.
