Moe Pritchard, 62, retired Missouri state park trail maintenance foreman, had grumbled the entire drive from his single-wide outside Branson to the trivia night at Ron’s downtown bar. He’d avoided the place for three years, ever since his ex-wife had brought her solar-salesman fiance there for a date, and he’d spilled a full pint of lager on the guy’s Patagonia vest on purpose. Ron had begged him to come, said their team was short a guy who knew useless 1970s football stats, and Moe had caved only because Ron owed him a case of good bourbon for fixing his leaky roof the month prior.
He slid into the last open booth seat, already planning to leave after the first round, when he realized who was sitting next to him: Lila Marlow, Ron’s 38-year-old separated daughter-in-law. He hadn’t seen her in two years, not since she’d brought Jax, Ron’s son, to the hospital when Moe had fallen off a trail ladder and broken his wrist. He’d always thought of her as the quiet kid who used to show up at the trailhead with Jax back when they were dating, hauling Tupperwares of chocolate chip cookies for Moe’s crew, wearing hiking boots that were too big and a messy braid down her back. Now her hair was cut in a sharp bob, she had a tiny silver hoop through her left nostril, and the top two buttons of her flannel shirt were undone, showing a sliver of a sunflower tattoo on her collarbone.
The first 20 minutes were awkward. Moe answered every football question correctly, avoided looking at her, kept his arms crossed tight over his chest like he was guarding something. Then he spilled a sip of his IPA on his jeans, and she laughed, low and warm, and passed him a crumpled napkin. Their fingers brushed when he took it, and he felt a jolt run up his arm, like when he’d touched a downed power line on a trail once, sharp and warm and unexpected. She smelled like lavender and lime seltzer, and when she leaned over to grab a tater tot from the platter in the middle of the table, her knee pressed against his under the booth, soft and steady, and she didn’t move it away.
He didn’t move his knee either. He asked her how her art teaching job was, the one she’d been going to school for back when she was 20, and she talked for 10 minutes straight about how her third graders were painting murals of the local forest, complaining that Jax had never once asked her about work in 12 years of marriage, that he’d always written it off as “glorified babysitting.” He nodded, told her about the mural a group of kids had painted on the side of the trailhead visitor center back in 2015, and when he rolled up his flannel sleeve to point out the raised pale scar on his forearm from the 2018 chainsaw slip that almost cost him two fingers, she reached over and ran her index finger lightly over it, her skin soft as clover. He’d had a dozen people ask about that scar over the years, but no one had ever touched it like that, like it was something interesting instead of a reminder of how clumsy he’d been that day. She stared at him the whole time, her eyes dark and unblinking, like he was saying something far more interesting than he actually was.
When the host announced their team had won, the whole table cheered. Lila leaned in to hug him, and her chest pressed against his, her hand resting on the small of his back for three full beats too long, her breath warm against his neck. “I’ve been thinking about you since Ron’s birthday last year,” she whispered, so quiet no one else could hear, “you were the only person who asked me what I wanted when everyone was pestering me to work it out with Jax.”
Moe froze for half a second, his brain warring between the voice that said this was wrong, that he’d known her since she was 19, that Ron would lose his mind if he found out, and the louder, hungrier voice that said he hadn’t felt this alive in 8 years, not since his ex had packed her bags and left. He didn’t kiss her there, not with half the town watching, not with Ron slapping him on the back and handing him his prize, a $50 bar tab.
He walked her out to her car when the night wrapped up, the cool October air nipping at his cheeks, the sound of crickets chirping loud from the oak trees lining the street. She stopped next to her beat-up Subaru, tugged on the sleeve of his flannel, and smiled, that same quiet, warm smile he’d liked even when she was 20 and bringing his crew cookies. “I planted a pollinator garden out behind my rental,” she said, nodding toward the west end of town, “I bought three bee hives last month. I still don’t know what I’m doing. Was hoping you’d come show me.”
Moe didn’t hesitate. He nodded, told her he’d follow her there, and when she pulled out of the parking lot, he climbed into his old Ford pickup, his hands still buzzing from where her fingers had brushed his sleeve. He pulled into her driveway 10 minutes later, and she was waiting for him on the porch, holding two mason jars of iced sweet tea, the porch light gilding the edges of her bob.
