Earl Voss is 62, retired highway bridge inspector, 38 years of clambering over rusted girders in rain and swelter across western Pennsylvania, and he hasn’t so much as flirted with anyone since his wife Linda died eight years prior. His biggest flaw is that he’s convinced any joy not tied to memory of her is a betrayal, so he sticks to fixing vintage lawn tractors out of his cinder block garage, drinks cheap lager at the fire hall fish fries, and avoids any family gathering that doesn’t involve a casket or a baptism. The annual town carnival is the only exception he makes, mostly for the fried cheese curds and the chance to yell at the carny running the ring toss for scamming kids out of their allowance.
He’s leaning against a splintered wooden support pole in the beer tent, half-empty plastic cup in one hand, grease smudge on the cuff of his work flannel from replacing a carburetor that morning, when her shoulder brushes his bicep hard enough to make a little of his beer slosh over the edge. He’s ready to snap at whatever drunk wandered too close, then he looks down and it’s Mara Carter, Linda’s second cousin, 58, just moved back to town three months prior after a messy divorce from a corporate lawyer in Chicago. He’s only ever seen her at weddings and funerals, usually in a nice dress, quiet, holding a glass of white wine. Today she’s in cutoff jeans and a faded Steelers t-shirt, bare legs dusted with carnival dust, coconut sunscreen and cherry Jolly Rancher rolling off her in a warm, sweet cloud.
He can’t make himself step away, though. When she passes him a paper bag of still-steaming cheese curds, their fingers brush, and he feels the thick callus on her index finger from digging in her garden, the chipped pale blue nail polish on her thumb, and he has to look away for a second to catch his breath. She teases him about still wearing the same steel toe boots he wore to her sister’s wedding 19 years prior, leans in so her hair brushes his jaw when she laughs, and he finds himself telling her about the bridge he used to inspect 12 miles out of town, the one overlooking the Youghiogheny, where you can see the fireworks better than anywhere in town without the crowd. She doesn’t hesitate when he suggests they skip the chaos of the carnival grounds to drive out there.
The ride over is quiet, the windows rolled down, warm summer air blowing in, her bare foot propped on the dash of his beat up 2008 F150, country radio low. He keeps glancing over at her, at the way the wind tangles her hair, and he can’t stop thinking about how he spent so many years convinced he’d never feel that little flip in his stomach again, that he was done with anything that wasn’t predictable and safe. When they pull up to the gravel pull off next to the bridge, they climb onto the hood of the truck, and she leans into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her shoulder pressed to his ribs, her hand resting on the warm metal next to his thigh. The first firework bursts red and gold over the river, and she turns to look up at him, her eyes glinting, and he kisses her before he can talk himself out of it.
She tastes like cherry candy and seltzer, tangles one hand in the short gray hair at the nape of his neck, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t feel guilty for feeling good. He doesn’t think about the gossip, or the distant family tie, or Linda, not even for a second. He just feels her hand on his neck, the warm summer air on his face, the distant boom of the fireworks echoing off the bridge girders he used to climb.
They stay on the hood until the last firework fades, then climb back into the truck to head back into town. He reaches across the center console, laces his fingers through hers, notices the chipped blue nail polish is the exact same shade Linda used to wear every summer. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull his hand away. He squeezes a little tighter.
