Wendell Tackett, 61, owns a one-man antique farm implement restoration shop on two acres of scrub outside Akron, Ohio, and he’s avoided the local 4-H fair for 12 straight years. The last time he went, his then-wife Deanna had spent the whole night flirting with a pharmaceutical rep she’d met at her nursing job, left with him halfway through the demolition derby, and never came home. He’d thrown himself into his work after that, sanding rust off 1920s corn shellers and rebuilding John Deere engine blocks until his knuckles stayed permanently cracked, turning down every neighbor’s invite to cookouts or happy hours like he was collecting refusals as a hobby. His only consistent company was a three-legged coonhound named Mabel that followed him around the shop, and that was exactly how he liked it.
He only showed up this year because he’d restored a 1918 International Harvester thresher to donate to the fair’s silent auction, the proceeds going to fund the local FFA chapter. He was wiping the last smudge of WD-40 off the machine’s polished brass nameplate, frayed cotton bandana tucked in the back pocket of his grease-stained Carhartts, when he heard a laugh that snagged in his chest like a burr on flannel.
He looked up. Marnie Cole, Deanna’s half-sister, was leaning against the fence ten feet away, holding a paper plate stacked with deep-fried pickles, auburn hair streaked with silver pulled back in a messy braid. He’d last seen her at Deanna and the pharma rep’s wedding, 11 years prior, when she was 37 and still living in Columbus, working as a project manager for a commercial construction firm. Now she was 48, he realized, wearing scuffed work boots and cutoff jeans, the same chipped cherry-red nail polish she’d worn when she was 17 and crashing on his and Deanna’s couch after high school football games.
She pushed off the fence and walked over, stopping so close their shoulders brushed when she leaned in to read the nameplate on the thresher. The air around her smelled like dill pickle brine and lemon sunscreen, the faint clink of fair ride chains and distant moo of show cows humming in the background. “You restored this, right?” she said, tilting her head up to look at him, her hazel eyes holding his longer than polite, no trace of awkwardness. “I remember you sanding parts for that old plow in the garage when I’d hide out from my mom’s lectures about skipping study hall. You always did make old junk look better than new.”
He tensed up immediately, every cell in his body screaming that this was a line he shouldn’t cross, that she was Deanna’s sister, that everyone in this town talked, that getting tangled up with anyone related to his ex was a one-way ticket to the kind of drama he’d spent a decade running from. But when she reached out to run a finger along the edge of the thresher’s polished flywheel, her hand brushed his, and he felt a jolt shoot up his arm that had nothing to do with static electricity. He noticed the tiny, faded scar on her left wrist, the one she’d gotten when he’d taught her to throw a horseshoe at the 2003 county fair, when she’d missed the stake and sliced her arm open on a rusted nail sticking out of the bleachers. He’d driven her to the ER that night, held her hand while the doctor stitched her up, and Deanna had teased him for three days for being too soft on her little sister.
“I moved back last month,” she said, wiping pickle grease off her thumb on the side of her faded Ohio State hoodie, not pulling her hand away from where it was still resting half an inch from his. “My mom’s got early stage dementia, so I quit my job in Columbus, sold the house. My husband passed two years ago, so there wasn’t much keeping me there anyway.”
He nodded, his throat tight. He’d heard about her husband, the electrician who’d died in a work accident, from his cousin at the hardware store a while back. He didn’t know what to say, so he just stood there, the scent of fried oreos drifting over from the food stand nearby, Mabel trotting over to nudge Marnie’s hand with her wet nose. Marnie laughed, bending down to scratch behind the hound’s good ear, and when she stood back up her hair fell in her face, and he reached out without thinking to tuck it behind her ear.
The second his fingers brushed her cheek, he froze, ready to apologize, to mumble an excuse about the wind, to grab Mabel and bolt for his truck. But she just smiled, slow and soft, and leaned into his touch for half a second before pulling back. “I always thought you were too good for her, you know,” she said, quiet enough that only he could hear it, the crowd of fairgoers walking past chattering like they didn’t exist. “She never saw how much work you put into everything, not just the machines. She just saw you as something to keep her warm until she found something she thought was better. I used to get so mad at her for it.”
He stared at her, his brain warring between the instinct to run, to tell her this was wrong, that people would talk, that he didn’t do this kind of thing anymore, and the quiet, warm hum in his chest that he hadn’t felt in so long he’d forgotten it existed. She stepped a little closer, her leg pressing against his through the denim of their jeans, and he didn’t move away.
“You got time to walk around?” she said, nodding at the beer tent down the path. “I haven’t been to this fair since I was 19. I wanna see if the cotton candy still tastes like pure sugar, and if the demolition derby is still as stupid as I remember.”
He hesitated for two more seconds, then nodded, wiping his hands on his Carhartts again, like that would get rid of the sweat gathering on his palms. They walked slow, Mabel trotting between them, stopping every few feet to sniff at discarded food wrappers. She bought him a draft beer from the tent, the plastic cup cold and damp in his hand, and they sat on a splintered wooden bench by the horse show arena, watching a group of teens lead their prize heifers around the ring. She leaned her head on his shoulder for a split second, then pulled back, like she was scared she’d overstepped, and he found himself leaning into the empty space she left.
“I know this is weird,” she said, picking at the label on her beer cup, her voice quieter than before. “I know you probably hate my whole family for how she treated you. But I’ve had a stupid crush on you since I was 16, and I’m not gonna waste the chance to see if this is something, just because my sister was an idiot. If you don’t want this, I’ll walk away right now, no hard feelings.”
He sat there for a full minute, listening to the announcer over the PA yell out the winner of the pig race, a group of kids hooting as they ran past with giant cotton candy sticks. He thought about all the nights he’d spent alone in his shop, drinking cheap beer and watching old westerns, thinking that was all he had left. He thought about the way she’d laughed when Mabel slobbered on her hand, the way she’d noticed the little details of the thresher he’d spent three months restoring, the scar on her wrist he’d helped give her 20 years prior.
He reached over, laced his calloused, grease-stained fingers through hers, the calluses on her hands from 20 years of construction work matching his perfectly. She looked up at him, surprised, and grinned, the same lopsided grin she’d had when she was a teen and she’d snuck a beer out of his fridge when Deanna wasn’t looking.
“I got a 1952 John Deere Model B in the shop I’m restoring,” he said, standing up, pulling her gently to her feet with him. “I was gonna work on it tomorrow. You wanna come over? I can teach you how to adjust the carburetor, if you want.”
She squeezed his hand, not letting go, as they started walking back toward the silent auction tent to check if the thresher had gotten any new bids.
