Rico Marquez, 53, had driven 420 miles that day, bouncing between dusty high school baseball fields in west Texas, when he spotted the fire department fish fry sign off Highway 83. He’d planned to grab a gas station burrito and crash at the no-frills motor lodge on the edge of town, but the smell of fried catfish and charcoal drifting across the parking lot hooked him before he could talk himself out of stopping. He grabbed a paper plate heaped with crispy fish, vinegar-doused coleslaw, and a handful of hushpuppies, paid the teen in the oversized fireman’s hat, and claimed the only empty picnic table left, tucked under a gnarled oak tree far from the blaring country cover band.
He’d just taken his first bite, flaky seasoned fish melting on his tongue, when a shadow fell across his table. He looked up. The woman standing there wore a linen wrap dress the color of wild sunflowers, a smudge of barbecue sauce on her left cheek, a plastic name tag pinned to her chest that read LENA, MAYOR. She gestured to the empty bench across from him. “Mind if I crash? Every other table is full of constituents demanding I fix the potholes on Main Street before they eat their peach cobbler.” He nodded, shifting his scouting notebook stacked with pitch speed stats out of the way, his scarred left knuckle brushing the edge of her plate when he slid it toward her. Her skin was warm, softer than he expected, and he pulled his hand back fast like he’d touched a hot grill.
They talked through his entire plate, then hers, the crowd thinning around them as the sun dipped below the tree line, painting the sky streaks of pink and tangerine. She told him she’d been mayor for 18 months, separated from her high school football coach husband for 10, hadn’t told anyone because the town was voting on a $20 million water bond next month and she didn’t want petty gossip to tank the vote for a project that would fix the town’s crumbling well system. He told her about blowing out his rotator cuff senior year of college, ending his shot at playing pro ball, the 8 years he’d spent alone since his wife left him for a Dallas real estate agent, the way he kept a stack of 90s Astros cards in his glove compartment for the kids he scouted who didn’t have anyone showing up to their games. She leaned in when he talked, her knee brushing his under the table every time she shifted to get comfortable, her hazel eyes flecked with green never drifting from his face, even when a group of drunk off-duty firemen yelled her name across the lot. He kept waiting for the awkward lull, the point where she’d remember she had official duties to tend to and leave, but it never came.
The band switched to a slow George Strait cover, the kind of song every Texas kid grows up dancing to at wedding receptions and county fair rodeos. She pushed her empty plate aside, held her hand out across the table. “C’mon. Dance with me.” He froze. He hadn’t danced since his wedding 16 years prior, and the idea of fumbling through a slow dance in front of half the town made his chest tight. “I’m terrible,” he said, half excuse, half warning. She grinned, wiggling her fingers. “Me too. We’ll be terrible together. No one’s watching anyway.” He hesitated for two more beats, then took her hand. Her palm was calloused at the edges, from tending to the vegetable garden in her backyard, she said later, and her fingers laced through his like they’d been made to fit there.
They danced off to the side, under the oak tree, far enough from the crowd that no one paid them any mind. Her free hand rested on his shoulder, his settled on her waist, the thin cotton of her dress doing nothing to block the heat of her skin through his worn work shirt. She smelled like coconut sunscreen and fried okra, and when she rested her head on his chest for a few seconds, he could feel his heart hammering hard enough that he was sure she could hear it through the fabric. He didn’t kiss her there, not where someone could snap a photo or run their mouth and tank her bond vote before it even got on the ballot, but when the song ended, he leaned in, his mouth close enough to her ear that his breath brushed the edge of her hair. “I’m in room 12 at the motor lodge on the edge of town,” he said, low enough that only she could hear. “Door’ll be unlocked if you want to stop by after you’re done with mayor duties.” She pulled back, held his gaze for three long, heavy beats, then squeezed his hand once, hard enough to leave a faint mark. “I’ll be there,” she said.
He got back to the room 10 minutes later, kicked his scuffed work boots off by the door, left the porch light on, and sat on the edge of the lumpy bed, listening to crickets chirp outside and the distant hum of semi trucks rolling down the highway. He ran a thumb over the scar on his left knuckle, the one he’d gotten fixing a flat on his pickup on the way to a playoff game last month, and laughed a little at how stupid he was, how he’d let himself get hooked on a woman he’d just met, who had a whole life here he couldn’t possibly fit into with his 200 days a year on the road. Forty seven minutes later, he heard a soft knock on the door. He looked up, and she was standing in the doorway, holding a six pack of ice-cold Shiner Bock in one hand, her strappy sandals in the other, the barbecue sauce smudge long gone from her cheek. She stepped inside, kicked the door closed behind her, and set the beer down on the chipped nightstand. She leaned in, and he could taste the sweet tea she’d been sipping all night on her lips when she kissed him.
