Merv Kozlowski, 61, retired industrial arts teacher from Missoula, spent 32 years teaching pimply teens to cut clean dovetails and fix busted riding lawnmowers before he hung up his planer in 2020. He’d avoided every local street fair, potluck, and pancake breakfast since his wife Diane died of ovarian cancer four years prior, convinced any small, unplanned joy that didn’t involve wading the Bitterroot at dawn or sanding bamboo fly rods in his garage was a betrayal of the 36 years they’d built together. He only showed up to this year’s July 4th fair because his 12-year-old granddaughter Lila snuck his latest custom rod—wrapped in iridescent blue thread to match Diane’s favorite summer dress—into the hobby contest without asking, and he couldn’t say no when she showed up on his porch holding sparklers and a dramatic pout.
The air smelled like charred bratwurst, cotton candy, and pine blown down from the mountains. The temperature hovered at 81, sticky enough that the hem of his worn Carhartt shirt clung to the small of his back. He lingered by the beer tent, sipping a cold Pabst, trying to stay out of the way of the crowds, when he caught her staring. She was leaning against the tent’s wooden support pole, a streak of silver cutting through her dark auburn hair pulled back in a loose braid, canvas overalls dusted with what looked like dried mint, name tag pinned to her chest that read “Jesse, Root & Bloom Apothecary.” He’d seen her around town before, restocking dried lavender at the grocery store, loading firewood into the back of her beat-up Subaru, but they’d never spoken. She held his eye for two full beats, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half-smile, before she nodded at the cup in his hand.
He looked away fast, face hot, pretending to adjust the brim of his faded Forest Service cap, and his elbow knocked the cup right out of his hand. Cold beer splattered across the front of her overalls, dark splotches blooming across the light tan fabric right above her left knee. He swore under his breath, grabbing a handful of crumpled napkins from the table next to him, stepping forward before he thought better of it, his hand hovering an inch from her thigh before he froze, suddenly hyperaware of how close they were standing, the faint smell of sage and sweet orange peel coming off her skin, the bluegrass band behind them picking up a faster tempo.
“Whoa, easy there,” she said, laughing, and her voice was lower than he expected, rough around the edges like she spent half her time yelling over wind in the trees. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, warm and calloused, and guided his hand holding the napkins to the wet spot on her overalls, their knuckles brushing as she pressed down with him to soak up the beer. “I’ve had worse stains on these. Last week I spilled an entire jar of pine resin on them. This is nothing.”
He pulled his hand back fast, shoving the napkins in his pocket, stammering an apology, convinced he’d made a total fool of himself, that he should just grab his rod and go home and forget the whole thing. But she didn’t let him leave. She asked him what he was doing at the fair, and when he told her about the fly rod contest, her face lit up. She said she’d already walked past the contest table earlier, had stopped to stare at that exact rod, loved the blue thread wrap, had wondered who made it. She fished with her dad every summer up at Seeley Lake before he died, she said, still has his old fiberglass rod in the closet of her cabin, can’t bear to get rid of it even though the eyelets are all rusted.
He found himself talking before he could stop himself, telling her about how he picks the bamboo himself from a patch he found deep in the Lolo National Forest, how Diane used to tease him for spending three weeks on each rod like he was building a spaceship instead of something people use to catch trout. He didn’t even realize he’d mentioned her name until he stopped, his throat tight, waiting for that familiar twist of guilt in his gut, but it didn’t come. Jesse just nodded, told him she still talks to her mom every time she bakes her famous chocolate chip cookies, even though she’s been gone six years, that grief doesn’t mean you have to stop letting people in.
The contest announcer called his name ten minutes later. First place, a $150 gift card to the local fly shop, a blue ribbon tied to the handle of his rod. Jesse cheered louder than anyone else around them, leaning in to hug him before she thought about it, her chest pressing against his, her braid falling over his shoulder, and he didn’t pull away. He rested one hand light on her back, could feel the steady thump of her heartbeat through her overalls, the sun warm on the back of his neck.
When they pulled apart, she tucked the blue ribbon into the pocket of her overalls, her thumb brushing the back of his hand as she handed him the gift card. She asked him if he wanted to get a plate of brats and sit on the tailgate of her truck to watch the fireworks later, and if he was free next weekend to help her fix the eyelets on her dad’s old rod, maybe take it out on the Bitterroot for a test run.
He nodded, no hesitation, no twist of guilt in his chest, no voice in his head telling him he didn’t deserve to have a good time. He watched her walk over to the food stand, her boots kicking up dust on the asphalt, and for the first time in four years, he didn’t spend the whole time waiting for the day to be over.
