Rafe Pritchard is 62, makes his living sanding dents out of 1960s travel trailers and rewiring their wonky electrical systems out of a corrugated metal shop behind his house outside Waco, Texas. He’s avoided every local senior social event for eight straight years, ever since his wife Jan died of breast cancer, convinced they’re just awkward cattle calls for people desperate to not eat frozen dinner alone. His biggest flaw is he’d rather spend three nights rebuilding a rusted water heater than make small talk with a stranger, even when his little sister begs him to get out of the shop and stop talking to his hound dog like it’s a drinking buddy.
He’s at the McLennan County Fair on a crisp October Tuesday, wiping axle grease off his calloused palms with a faded red bandana, the smell of fresh sawdust from his Airstream’s custom cabinet work mixing with the sickly sweet scent of caramel corn from the stand 10 feet away, when he spots her leaning against the chain link fence surrounding his contest entry. She’s holding a crumpled plastic cup of fried Oreo crumbs, scuffed work boots crossed at the ankle, denim jacket sleeves rolled up to show a black ink tattoo of a pine tree on her forearm. It takes him three full seconds to place her: Jo, Jan’s half-sister, 14 years younger than his late wife, the kid who’d hid in the back of the church during their wedding 35 years prior, chewing bubble gum and rolling her eyes at the flowery vows. She’s in town settling their mom’s estate, she says when she notices him staring, pushes off the fence to step close enough that the shoulder of her jacket brushes his bicep when she nods at the reclaimed cedar cabinet he built into the Airstream’s kitchenette. “Jan always said you were weirdly good with scrap wood,” she says, and her laugh is warmer than Jan’s ever was, rougher around the edges, like she spends most of her time yelling over wind in the trees. She’s a forest ranger, she tells him, based outside Steamboat Springs, spends half her year backcountry patrolling on horseback, the other half fixing up a tiny cabin she built herself on 10 acres of national forest adjacent land.
The guilt hits him fast, sharp enough to make him flinch like he’s touched a live wire. He’s not supposed to notice how her eyes crinkle at the corners when she teases him about the ratty “World’s Okayest Welder” trucker hat he’s wearing, not supposed to like the way she smells like pine sol and cherry lip balm, not supposed to feel the heat creep up his neck when her hand brushes his as they walk past the cotton candy stand, peanut shells crunching under their work boots. He spends half an hour fighting the urge to make an excuse and leave, half an hour fighting the voice in his head that screams he’s betraying Jan by even standing next to her, by even wanting to stay. She drags him to the ring toss booth, teases him when he misses three throws in a row, cheers loud enough to turn a few nearby heads when he nails the fourth and wins her a beat-up stuffed coyote with one lopsided ear. Their fingers brush again when he hands it to her, and her palm is calloused, same as his, lined with small scars from chopping wood and fixing fence line, no fancy manicures, no performative softness, no pretense.
They sit on the tailgate of his beat-up 2001 F-150 when the fireworks start, the boom of the explosions rattling the truck’s frame, pink and gold light painting the dark sky above the fair’s creaking Ferris wheel. It’s 52 degrees, cold enough that he can see their breath when they laugh, and she shivers, leans into his side slow, like she’s giving him plenty of time to pull away if he wants. He hesitates for two full heartbeats, then wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulls her closer so her head rests against his chest. She tilts her head up to look at him, the light from a stray red firework flashing across her face, and her voice is so quiet he almost misses it over the noise of the crowd screaming in the distance. “I always thought you picked the wrong sister,” she says. He doesn’t answer, just presses a soft kiss to her temple, tastes the cotton candy she’d eaten 20 minutes prior on her skin, feels the tight, heavy tension he’s carried in his shoulders for eight years melt just a little.
He drives her back to the small Craftsman-style Airbnb she’s renting in the historic district downtown, the lopsided stuffed coyote wedged between them in the truck’s front seat, the radio playing old Willie Nelson songs low enough that they don’t have to talk over it. She turns to him before she gets out, reaches over to brush a fleck of fair funnel cake crumb off his jaw, and asks him if he wants to come in for a beer, no pressure, no expectations. He doesn’t hesitate this time, twists the key to turn off the truck, grabs his frayed flannel jacket off the seat behind him, follows her up the creaky wooden porch steps.
