Mac was 52, a custom fly rod builder who’d spent the last 8 years avoiding Bryson City’s annual 4th of July picnic like it was a patch of poison ivy in wading boots. His late wife, Ellie, had organized the thing for 12 years straight, and every time he’d even driven past the park that weekend, he’d caught a whiff of her famous vinegar coleslaw and turned right back around for his workshop tucked in the hills above town. This year, his 22-year-old niece had shown up at his door at 10 a.m., hauled his half-finished rod blank off his workbench, and threatened to give his prized collection of vintage bamboo rods to her stoner boyfriend if he didn’t come.
He’d hidden by the industrial beer cooler for 45 minutes straight when the collision happened. One second he was twisting the cap off a Pabst, the next a woman in a forest green park ranger uniform stumbled back into him, a paper plate piled high with pulled pork hovering an inch from his gray flannel shirt. He caught her elbow automatically, his calloused fingers wrapping around warm skin that smelled like pine sap and citrus sunscreen, and she laughed loud enough to cut through the din of kids screaming on the bouncy house 20 feet away.
“Sorry about that,” she said, leaning back just far enough to look up at him, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners like she wasn’t sorry at all. Her uniform shirt had a smudge of mud on the left sleeve, her work boots caked with the red clay that stained every trail in the Nantahala National Forest. He recognized her as Lena, the new head ranger who’d moved to town three months prior, the one all the old guys at the bait shop complained about because she’d started writing $150 tickets for people leaving trash at the trout access points.
He let go of her elbow slowly, like he was handling a fragile rod tip, and wiped his palm on the side of his jeans. “No harm done. Figured someone would take me out with a plate of pork eventually. Town’s been gossiping about me showing up for weeks.”
She snickered, grabbing a beer from the cooler beside him, their fingers brushing when she reached for the cap opener hanging off the edge. “Heard you’re the reclusive fly rod genius who never leaves his workshop. Also heard you once told a guy from Atlanta who asked you to build him a $2000 rod to go fuck himself because he said he only fished for stocked rainbows.”
He huffed a laugh, surprised she’d heard that story. Most people left out the part where the guy had also called Ellie’s memorial trout stocking event a “waste of good fish.” He leaned back against the cooler, his shoulder brushing hers when she shifted to lean against it too, the heat of her arm seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt. He tensed for half a second, the familiar twist of guilt in his gut—he hadn’t been this close to a woman who wasn’t his niece or a grocery store cashier since Ellie died. Part of him wanted to mumble an excuse and leave, go back to his quiet workshop where no one looked at him like he was a broken thing to fix, but another part, the part he’d buried under sawdust and fishing line for 8 years, wanted to stay.
They talked for an hour, the crowd thinning out as the sun dipped low over the mountains. She told him she’d been trying to learn to fly fish for months, but every guy at the bait shop talked to her like she was a toddler holding a rod for the first time, offered to “show her the ropes” if she bought them dinner first. He offered to take her out to the small stream behind his workshop the next weekend, the one only he and Ellie knew about, before he could talk himself out of it. She grinned, leaning in so close he could smell the root beer she’d chased her beer with, her shoulder pressed firm to his bicep for 10 full seconds before she pulled back.
When the first firework exploded overhead, painting the sky pink and gold, the crowd cheered and surged toward the open field. They hung back by the oak tree line, and Mac was just about to stumble through an excuse to leave, guilt coiling tight in his chest again, when she reached over, lacing her calloused fingers through his. Her palm was rough from months of trail maintenance, a small scar across the base of her thumb from a chainsaw accident, and he froze for a beat before he squeezed back, no words needed. The guilt didn’t disappear, not entirely, but it felt lighter, like the weight he’d carried for 8 years wasn’t his alone to hold anymore.
After the last firework fizzled out and the crowd started dispersing, she turned to him, still holding his hand, and asked if he wanted to come back to her cabin for coffee. He said yes without hesitation. They walked to her beat-up silver Ford Ranger parked by the park entrance, and he opened the passenger door for her. She leaned up before she got in, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his jaw, her lips tasting like root beer and cherry lip balm. He climbed into the passenger seat, reached over to adjust the AC vent blowing cold air directly in his face, and his knuckles brushed the denim of her knee. She grinned, turning the key in the ignition, and the truck rumbled to life down the dark road back toward the hills.
