Marlon Hargrove, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, swiped a forearm across his sweat-streaked forehead and squinted against the July sun beating down on the town craft festival. His booth was stacked with the Adirondack chairs he’d spent the last three months building, white oak and cedar, joinery so tight you couldn’t slide a sheet of paper between the slats. For seven years, this festival had been the only social obligation he didn’t find an excuse to skip, ever since Linda died of ovarian cancer. His biggest flaw, the one he didn’t admit out loud, was that he hid behind his widower status like a shield, turning down every dinner invitation, every blind date, every offer of company that didn’t involve sanding or planing or a table saw’s low hum. He liked being the quiet, sad woodshop guy people didn’t push to talk.
The air smelled like hop residue from the beer tent, charred bratwurst, and cut grass. A family had just bought a cherry chair for their lake cottage, kids bouncing on the seat while their dad handed over crumpled 20s, when he heard that laugh. Low, throaty, the same one he’d heard a hundred times in the teacher’s lounge back when he was still grading shop projects and the football coach’s wife would drop off homemade chocolate chip cookies on game days.
Carla Mercer was leaning against the edge of his booth, 58, her gray-streaked blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid, a smudge of cherry pie filling glistening on the left side of her jaw. She held a hazy IPA in a neon plastic cup, the rim stuck with a sprig of fresh rosemary, and her linen button-down was undone one button past what the town’s more conservative church ladies would deem appropriate. Her hip was six inches from his knee where he sat on a stool, and he could pick up the faint sweet scent of coconut sunscreen mixed with the pine of the rosemary in her drink. He’d not spoken more than ten words to her in the 24 years they’d both been connected to the high school, had always thought she was way out of his league, even before Linda got sick. And everyone in town knew she’d only finalized her divorce from Coach Mercer eight months prior, after he left her for a 28-year-old cheerleading coach he’d met at a statewide clinic. Hitting on her was the kind of small town taboo that would be the subject of potluck gossip for six months straight.
“Always loved how you make these,” she said, nodding at the chair beside her, tapping the curved armrest with a bright red nail. Her hazel eyes held his, no trace of the awkward pity most people wore when they talked to him, little gold flecks catching the sun when she tilted her head. “Bought one of your birdhouses at the school garden sale 12 years ago. The one with the tiny carved bluebird above the entrance. My mom had it hanging on her porch till she died last year.”
Marlon’s throat went dry. He didn’t remember anyone but Linda ever noticing the little carvings he added to every piece, the tiny acorns on chair legs, the bluebirds on birdhouses, the sunflowers on the toy boxes he built for the local foster care program. He leaned forward to grab a business card off the table, and her forearm brushed his. He felt the soft fuzz of her arm hair, the coolness of her skin from holding the cold plastic cup, and a jolt went through him that he hadn’t felt since the first time he’d kissed Linda at a drive-in movie in 1987.
He wanted to pull away. Wanted to mumble a thank you and go back to wiping down the chair slats, pretend that split second of contact didn’t make his chest feel tight, like he was doing something wrong. The group of retired teachers he used to work with were at the beer tent 20 feet away, he could see Coach Mercer’s old assistant coach laughing so hard he snort-laughed into his beer, and he knew if they saw him talking to Carla, the texts would start flying before the end of the hour. Disgust warred with desire for half a beat—disgust at himself for even thinking about another woman, for wanting to step outside the safe, quiet bubble he’d built for himself, desire that was soft and slow, not the sharp, urgent hunger he’d felt when he was younger, but something warmer, like stepping into a heated garage after being out in the snow.
“You want a sip?” she asked, holding the cup out to him, and he didn’t say no. The beer was bitter and citrusy, left a tingle on his tongue, and when he handed it back, his fingers brushed hers again. She didn’t pull away.
They talked for 40 minutes while the crowd thinned out, the sun dipping low enough that the oak trees cast long shadows across the booth. She told him she’d taken up pottery after the divorce, had a studio in the old feed mill on the edge of town, that she made mugs with tiny sunflowers carved into the sides, same as the ones he put on the toy boxes. He told her about the workshop in his garage, the stack of raw cedar he’d picked up the week before, the way Linda used to tease him for spending more time with his table saw than he did watching TV with her. He didn’t usually talk about Linda to people who weren’t her sister, but it felt easy, talking to Carla, like she didn’t pity him, like she just got it.
When the festival organizer came around to tell everyone they could start packing up, Carla leaned in, her shoulder almost touching his, the scent of her sunscreen stronger now. “You want to walk the creek trail after you finish loading up? The fireflies should be out soon. I haven’t walked it since I was a kid.”
He hesitated for two full seconds, thinking about the quiet house waiting for him, the leftover meatloaf in the fridge, the half-finished chair he’d been working on for the past week. Then he said yes.
The trail was soft underfoot, dirt mixed with pine needles, the sound of crickets chirping loud enough to drown out the faint music from the festival’s main stage. She stopped halfway to pick a wild blackberry off a bush, held it out to him between her thumb and forefinger. He took it from her, his fingers brushing hers, and popped it in his mouth, sweet and tart, juice running down the side of his lip. She swiped it off with her thumb before he could, her skin warm against his mouth.
“I know people are gonna talk,” she said, stepping closer, so their chests were almost touching, and he could feel the heat coming off her skin. “I don’t care. Let them. I spent 30 years being the perfect coach’s wife, never doing anything that would make anyone side eye me. I’m done with that.”
He admitted he hadn’t kissed anyone in seven years, that he’d been scared to even try, that he thought he’d never want to again. She smiled, slow, and leaned in, her breath warm against his cheek. The kiss was soft, not messy, tasted like blackberry and IPA and the cherry pie she’d eaten earlier, and he wrapped one hand around her waist, the fabric of her linen shirt soft under his palm, and didn’t overthink it, didn’t feel guilty, didn’t worry about what anyone would say.
They walked back to his truck an hour later, his arms full of the wild blackberries she’d picked, and he pulled a folding Adirondack chair out of the bed, set it down in the grass at the edge of the parking lot. He sat, and she sat right next to him, no space between their hips, and watched the fireflies blink on and off over the creek, the sky turning pink and purple and then deep blue.
She rested her head on his shoulder, and he doesn’t even think to glance over at the beer tent where his old friends are still yelling over a game of cornhole.
