Moe Sorenson, 58, spent 32 years as a power lineman for central Iowa’s rural co-op before retiring last fall, his left knuckle crisscrossed with a thick scar from a 2017 ice storm that left three counties without power for 11 days. His biggest flaw, if you asked his older sister, was that he’d shut himself off from anything resembling romance after his wife left him for a grain broker 12 years prior, convinced his calloused hands, habit of leaving mud-caked work boots by the kitchen table, and tendency to ramble about transformer maintenance made him unfit for anyone who didn’t spend half their days climbing utility poles.
He’d showed up to the county summer fair alone, same as he had the last eight years, with $20 in cash for fried Oreos and a cold beer, and a foldable chair in the bed of his beat-up 2002 Silverado for the fireworks later. The air smelled like grilled corn and diesel from the tractor pull track, John Mellencamp’s *Jack & Diane* crackling over the tinny fair speakers as he waited in line at the concession stand, sweat beading at the edge of his faded Hawkeyes ballcap.
The woman next to him stumbled when her strappy sandal caught on a crack in the asphalt, her shoulder slamming hard into his bicep, the lemonade in her plastic cup sloshing over the rim to drip cool down his bare forearm. She laughed, bright and warm, as she fumbled for a napkin in her canvas tote, and Moe froze when he recognized her. Lila Marlow, 54, his late best friend Joe’s little sister, the kid who used to follow them around on fishing trips when they were in high school, who he hadn’t spoken more than 10 words to since Joe’s funeral three years prior.
The first thought that hit him was guilt, sharp and hot, that he was noticing how her sunflower-patterned dress hit just above her knees, how the tip of her nose was pink from the sun, how her hair smelled like lavender when she leaned in to dab at the lemonade on his arm with the napkin. Joe had always joked, back when they were 20 and drinking cheap beer in Joe’s parents’ basement, that if anything ever happened to him, Moe better keep an eye on Lila, that she was too nice for the deadbeat losers she kept dating. Moe had never interpreted that as permission to look at her like he was looking at her now, like he wanted to ask her to split a plate of fried Oreos instead of grabbing his own and heading to the car show alone.
She beat him to it, holding up the extra lemonade she’d bought for her mom, who’d bailed last minute with a knee flare, and asking if he wanted it, since she’d already spilled half of hers on him. He took it, his calloused fingers brushing hers as he grabbed the cup, and he felt a jolt that had nothing to do with the high-voltage lines he’d spent decades working with. He told her about the generator he’d fixed for her mom back in March, when a tornado knocked out power to her side of town, and she nodded, said she’d noticed the invoice he’d left on the kitchen counter was for zero dollars, that her mom had been trying to pay him back ever since. He shrugged, said Joe would’ve kicked his ass if he’d charged his mom for a 20-minute fix.
They wandered over to the classic car show without planning it, Moe rambling about the 1972 Ford F-150 he was restoring in his garage, the one he’d bought for $800 from a farm outside Des Moines, and Lila asking questions that weren’t just polite, that made him realize she actually cared about the difference between a 302 and a 390 engine. They stopped in front of a cherry-red 1968 Camaro, and Lila put her hand on his bicep, soft and intentional, not the accidental bump from earlier, and said Joe had always told her Moe was the only guy he’d ever known who didn’t talk down to people just because they didn’t know the difference between a wrench and a socket set.
Moe opened his mouth to say he shouldn’t be here, that hanging out with her like this felt like he was crossing a line he’d drawn for himself after Joe died, but then she leaned in a little, her shoulder pressed tight to his, and said she’d seen him dropping off canned soup and fresh tomatoes from his garden on her porch after her gallbladder surgery last spring, that she’d been working up the nerve to ask him out for coffee for months, she just didn’t know how to bring it up without him thinking she was using Joe as an excuse.
The guilt melted fast, replaced by something warm and light, the kind of feeling he hadn’t had since he was a teenager asking a girl to prom. He asked her if she wanted to ride the Ferris wheel before the fireworks started, and she nodded, grinning, as she grabbed his wrist to pull him toward the ride line. They sat side by side in the rickety metal car, their thighs pressed together when the car swayed, and when the Ferris wheel stopped at the very top, the first firework exploding in the sky above them, painting pink and gold across her face, he brushed a stray strand of hair off her forehead, his thumb brushing her cheekbone for half a second.
When the Ferris wheel jolted back into motion, he laced his scarred knuckles through hers, and didn’t let go until they were back on solid ground.
