Rafe Mendez, 62, retired air traffic controller, had been dragged to the Asheville fall beer festival against his better judgment. He’d spent the last eight years since his wife passed sticking to a rigid routine: early morning trail maintenance for the national forest, frozen dinners eaten at his kitchen counter while watching old westerns, weekends avoiding any gathering with more than three people. His core flaw? He’d convinced himself any new connection was more trouble than it was worth, that he was too set in his grumpy, set-in-his-ways rhythm to let anyone new in. His buddy Tom had shown up at his cabin at 2 p.m. holding a pair of festival tickets, called him a hermit until he caved and put on his least mud-caked flannel and scuffed work boots.
He was lingering by the BBQ food truck, half-drunk hazy IPA in hand, waiting for Tom to come back from the cider stand when he spotted her. Elara Voss, 58, ex-wife of his old shift lead Greg, who he’d last seen at a 2011 holiday party where she’d sat next to him for an hour, ignoring her sloppy, loud husband to rant about how Greg had forgotten their 15th anniversary to go golfing with the regional manager. Back then, he’d felt a sharp, unnameable pull toward her, but he’d squashed it immediately. She was married to his boss, for Christ’s sake, he’d never been the kind of guy to cross that line. He’d heard three years prior they’d split, after Greg got caught cheating with a 26-year-old intern, and Elara had moved back to the area to paint watercolors of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
She spotted him before he could duck behind the food truck. Waved, her silver hoop earrings swinging as she wove through the crowd of college kids and retirees, her flowy linen dress the color of pine needles catching the golden hour sun. He froze, his hand tightening around his beer can, half of him screaming to leave, the other half rooted to the spot. She smelled like lavender and citrus when she stopped in front of him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his when she leaned in to yell over the bluegrass band wailing on the main stage.
“Rafe? I thought that was you. I haven’t seen you in forever. How’ve you been?” Her voice was lower than he remembered, a little rough like she smoked the occasional cigarette, and when she laughed at his joke about Tom dragging him there against his will, the corners of her eyes crinkled the exact same way he’d remembered. He offered her a sip of his IPA, and when she reached out to take the can, their fingers brushed. He felt a jolt run up his arm, sharp and warm, and he wiped his palm on the leg of his jeans like he was just wiping off sweat, trying to play it cool. She smirked, like she noticed, and took a long sip, nodding at the taste.
The conflict warred in his chest the whole time they talked. One half of him was disgusted, old rules screaming in his ear that she was off limits, that even if she was divorced, messing around with your old boss’s ex was a line you didn’t cross. The other half of him was thrumming, alive in a way he hadn’t been in years. She didn’t check her phone once, didn’t glance over his shoulder to see if someone more interesting was around. She leaned in when he talked about the section of trail he’d spent the last three weeks fixing, asked follow up questions about the native wildflowers he’d planted along the edge, told him she’d been looking for new spots to paint.
When the band finished their set, the crowd roared, and there was a lull in the noise. She nodded toward the walking path that led down to the French Broad River, running along the edge of the festival grounds. “Wanna go for a walk? It’s too loud over here, and I wanna hear more about that trail.” He hesitated for half a second, the old rules still ringing in his head, then nodded.
They walked side by side, their hands brushing every few steps as they navigated the root-riddled path. After five minutes, she laced her fingers through his, her palm soft and warm against his calloused work hand. His throat went dry, but he didn’t pull away, squeezed her hand a little tighter to let her know it was okay. They stopped at a quiet stretch of river, no other people around, just the sound of the water running over rocks and crickets starting to chirp in the underbrush.
She turned to face him, her eyes glinting in the fading light. “I always thought you were the sweetest guy back then, you know? Greg would rant about how you never made mistakes on the shift, how you were the only one he trusted to cover the busiest hours, but I just remember you sitting next to me at that party, listening to me complain for an hour like you actually cared. I wished I’d had the nerve to talk to you more, back when I was stuck in that garbage marriage.”
He exhaled, a weight he didn’t know he was carrying lifting off his chest. “I felt the same. Never would’ve acted on it back then, out of respect for you, even when I found out what a piece of work Greg was. Thought I’d missed my shot.”
She leaned up and kissed him soft, her lips tasting like peach seltzer and mint, the cool wind off the river blowing her hair against his cheek. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer, his calloused hand resting light on the small of her back, and kissed her back, slow, no rush. They stayed there for 20 minutes, talking quiet, making plans to hike the trail he’d fixed next Saturday, she’d bring her paint supplies, he’d bring the peanut butter sandwiches he always packed for trail days.
Tom texted him three times, asking where he’d gone, but he ignored the texts, too busy listening to her talk about the series of river paintings she was working on for a local gallery show. When the sun dipped below the mountains, the air turning crisp enough to make him pull his flannel tighter around his shoulders, he walked her to her beat-up Subaru parked at the edge of the lot, tucking a stray purple aster he’d picked on the walk back behind her ear. She grinned so wide the corners of her eyes glistened, and she slipped him a crumpled scrap of paper with her phone number scrawled on it in blue ink before she climbed in the driver’s seat.
