Russell “Rust” Marquez is 62, spent 38 years tuning prop engines for regional air shows before a mild stroke sidelined him five years back, and has not so much as bought a woman a cup of coffee since his wife Linda passed eight years prior. His biggest flaw, per his 16-year-old granddaughter, is that he’s “stuck in 2015 like a bolt rusted solid in an engine block.” He’d never admit she’s right, but he has turned down every blind date, every church potluck invite paired with a single woman, even skipped his grandson’s end-of-season Little League cookout last year when he heard a widow from his prayer group was planning to attend. He’d convinced himself any new spark was a betrayal, that the story of his romantic life was already written, final chapter closed and dusted.
He’s at the annual Kendall County BBQ Cookoff on a humid late April Saturday because the event coordinator owes him a favor for fixing the generator at the fairgrounds last summer, and he can’t say no to free brisket, the air thick enough to chew with hickory smoke and the sweet tang of tomato-based sauce drifting over from the competitor pits. The judging table is crammed shoulder to shoulder, six people squeezed into a space built for four, so when Elara Voss slides into the seat next to him, her denim-clad thigh presses firm against his for half a second before she shifts to make space, and he tenses like he’s been zapped with a spark plug. He glances over, takes in the silver streaks braided into her dark auburn hair, the callus on the edge of her thumb from pruning shears, the faint citrus and cedar scent clinging to her flannel shirt, and he’s already mentally mapping an exit route before she opens her mouth.
“Nice prop tattoo,” she says, nodding at the faded ink on his left wrist, picking up a brisket slice with a plastic fork and blowing on it gentle. “My dad flew small cargo planes out of Boerne in the 90s. I know what those knuckles look like after you’ve spent 12 hours prying a broken blade loose.”
He grunts in response, takes a bite of his own brisket, avoids eye contact. He knows who she is, he’s seen her around the county extension office, 58, single, moved here from Oregon two years back to run the local 4-H programs, and half the single men over 50 in the county have been tripping over themselves to ask her out. He’s not going to be one of them.
The next hour passes slow, their elbows brushing every time they reach for a water cup or a paper napkin, her shoulder bumping his when she laughs so hard she snorts at a fellow judge’s terrible joke about dry rub. He finds himself watching her when he thinks she’s not looking, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she tries a too-spicy rib and has to chug half a bottle of sweet tea to cool her mouth, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear when she’s scribbling notes on her scorecard. The guilt hits him sharp, right in the chest, like Linda is watching from somewhere, shaking her head at him for even noticing another woman. He shoves his chair back ten minutes before judging wraps, mutters something about needing to get home, and turns to leave before she can say anything.
“Linda would have kicked your ass for bailing early,” she says soft, so quiet he almost misses it over the patter of rain on the tin barn roof. She must see the confusion on his face, because she huffs a quiet laugh. “I’m friends with her sister, Marnie. She’s told me all about you. How you used to hide lemon drops in Linda’s flight bag before she went up for air shows, how you learned to bake sourdough when she was going through chemo so she’d have something soft to eat. She also said you’ve been moping long enough, and if you didn’t ask me out sometime, she was going to have Marnie hide all your favorite wrench sets.”
The guilt melts faster than butter on warm cornbread, the tight hold he’s kept on his heart for eight years loosening just a little. He doesn’t overthink it, doesn’t talk himself out of it, just pulls his truck keys out of his pocket and nods toward his beat-up 2008 F-150, the one with the dented passenger door Linda backed into a fence post two months before she died.
“There’s a diner down 46 that makes peanut butter milkshakes so thick you have to eat ’em with a spoon,” he says, his voice a little rougher than he means it to be. “You wanna?”
She grins, lets her hands fall from his shirt but doesn’t step away, their rain-soaked sleeves still pressed together. “Only if you let me pick the music on the way.”
He holds the passenger door open for her, she climbs in, and when he gets in the driver’s seat, he pulls out the worn Merle Haggard CD he’s had in the player for 10 years and hands it to her. She laughs, pops it in, and when the first notes of Okie from Muskogee start playing, she sings along under her breath, tapping her boot against the dash. He reaches over, laces his calloused, grease-stained fingers through hers, and she squeezes back, no fanfare, no big declaration. The wipers slapped steady against the windshield, matching the slow, unhurried thud of his heart, for the first time in eight years no longer holding back.
