Rafe Mendez, 53, has run his small-batch bourbon distillery outside Pikeville for seven years, ever since he walked away from a 15-year coal mining career with a busted knee and a divorce decree folded in his flannel pocket. His biggest flaw, per his only remaining sister, is that he’s so determined to never get burned again he’s turned down every date, every casual coffee invite, every lingering smile tossed his way by regulars at his tasting room for the better part of a decade. He only agreed to judge the county fair’s annual pie contest because his old high school football coach showed up at his distillery at 7 a.m. last Monday with a case of cheap beer and a plea, and Rafe’s never been able to say no to the man who taught him how to tie a work boot and throw a spiral when his own dad skipped town.
The August air sticks to his skin like melted taffy when he slings himself into the folding chair at the judge’s table, and the first thing he notices is the woman sitting to his left. Elara, the emcee says, runs the community garden on the other side of the county, moved to the area nine months prior after her only daughter started undergrad at U of L. She’s wearing well-worn jeans and a faded John Prine tee, her dark hair pulled back in a braid streaked with a single silver streak above her left ear, and when she reaches across him to grab the stack of score cards, her elbow brushes the exposed skin of his forearm, cool and soft, and he catches the faint scent of lavender hand cream mixed with the fried Oreos and hay wafting from the midway behind them.
He makes a dumb joke about the last pie contest he judged back in 2016, where the third place pecan pie was so sweet it gave him a migraine that lasted two full days, and she snorts, a loud, unselfconscious sound that makes his chest feel lighter than it has in years. She holds his eye contact for two beats longer than strictly polite, the corner of her mouth tugged up in a half-smirk, and Rafe has to look away to grab a plastic fork, suddenly flustered like he’s 17 again fumbling through his first prom date.
They work their way through 12 pies, passing plates back and forth, their fingers brushing every third or fourth handoff, and Rafe spends half the time staring at the smudge of peach pie filling stuck to her lower lip, half the time berating himself for staring. He hates this, hates the way his pulse jumps when she leans in to whisper that the apple pie entry from Mrs. Henderson is definitely store-bought, hates that he’s even considering breaking his eight-year dry spell for a stranger at a county fair, feels stupid and naive and too old for this kind of juvenile giddiness. Half of him wants to make up an excuse about a distillery emergency and bolt, the other half wants to stay right where he is, listening to her make fun of the emcee’s terrible cowboy hat, for the rest of the afternoon.
When they announce the break before announcing winners, she tilts her head at the lemonade stand 20 feet away, and asks if he wants to split a large. He almost says no, almost mutters something about having to check on a batch of bourbon that’s barreling tonight, but he nods instead. They stand at the fence overlooking the horse show ring while they sip, the ice clinking in the plastic cup when she leans in to tell him about her daughter’s first pony ride at this exact fair when she was 6, her shoulder pressed firm against his, the sound of the rodeo announcer fading into a low hum in the background.
He doesn’t overthink it when he lifts his hand, brushes the faint, dried smudge of peach filling off her lower lip with his thumb. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, just meets his eye, that same half-smirk playing at her mouth, and says she has a jar of peach jam made from the same tree that grew the pie filling back at her house, if he wants to come over after the awards to taste it. Rafe doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t list off the hundred reasons he should say no, just says yeah, he’d like that a lot.
They walk back to the judge’s table side by side, their knuckles brushing once when they both reach to adjust the stack of score sheets on the table edge, and Rafe doesn’t stiffen up, doesn’t pull his hand away. When the emcee calls their names to hand out the first place ribbon, he lets his pinky rest against hers for the full 10 seconds they stand next to each other in front of the crowd, no excuses, no overthinking, no old grudges weighing on his shoulders for the first time in eight years.
