Elroy Voss is 62, a retired high school woodshop teacher who lives 20 minutes outside Marshall, North Carolina, population 882. He’s avoided the county’s annual August rib cookoff for 18 straight years, ever since he lost a drunk bet to Mara Carter, had to wear her frilly lavender Sunday apron for three hours while he served pulled pork to half the town, and spent the rest of the night kicking himself for the split second he’d leaned in like he was going to kiss her when she handed him the fabric. Back then he was still married to Linda, Mara’s second cousin, so the urge had sat in his gut like spoiled coleslaw for weeks, guilt and want tangled so tight he’d bailed on every public event he thought she might attend after that. He’s a lifelong avoider of any situation that makes him feel even slightly vulnerable, and this was the most vulnerable he’d felt since he flubbed his wedding vows in front of 200 guests.
He only showed up this year because his 16-year-old grandson talked him into it, said the new food truck served smoked brisket tacos worth driving an hour for, then bailed 20 minutes in to make out with his girlfriend at the movie theater in Asheville. Elroy’s holding a half-empty IPA, the can sweating through the paper koozie his grandson got him for Christmas, when someone’s elbow bumps hard into his left pec. He spins around, ready to tell some drunk kid to watch it, and comes face to face with Mara.
She’s 58 now, her dark hair streaked with more gray than he remembers, pulled back in a braid slung over one shoulder, faded denim overalls caked with mud at the cuffs, a smudge of beeswax on her left cheek. She’s holding a quart jar of wildflower honey, the cold glass pressing into his forearm for a beat before she yanks it back, and her laugh is the same rough, smoky sound he’s replayed in his head a hundred times. “Elroy Voss. I’d know that beat-up flannel and that scowl anywhere. Thought you’d died or moved to Alaska or something.”
The bluegrass band on the stage 20 feet away is trilling so loud his ears ring a little, and she leans in to hear him, her shoulder brushing his, her hair smelling like clover and lemon dish soap. He stumbles over his words at first, makes a dumb joke about avoiding the apron debt he owed, and she snorts, tilting her head so the sun catches the freckles across her nose he’d forgotten about. “Oh, I still got that apron. Stored in the back of my truck, actually. Was gonna bring it out if you ever showed your face again.”
The old guilt flares up first, hot and sharp, the voice in his head that called him a cheating bastard for wanting her when he was still wearing a wedding ring. But then she grins, no malice in it, and he realizes he’s been carrying that weight for no reason, not really. He tells her the truth, quiet enough only she can hear, that he didn’t avoid her because of the apron. That he avoided her because back then, he’d wanted to kiss her so bad he’d left the cookoff early just to keep from doing it, and he’d hated himself for feeling that way while he was still married.
She goes quiet for a second, and he thinks he’s messed up, that she’s gonna tell him to go to hell, but then she leans in even closer, her mouth almost touching his ear, and he can feel her breath warm against his skin. “I knew that. That’s why I teased you so bad about the bet. I wanted to see if you’d do it.”
His throat goes dry. The beer can in his hand is so slippery he almost drops it. He can feel the heat coming off her arm where it’s pressed to his, the rough texture of the overalls fabric catching on the frayed edge of his flannel sleeve, and for the first time in 18 years, he doesn’t feel guilty for wanting her. Linda left him for a real estate agent 12 years ago, they’re both free, there’s no unwritten rule saying he can’t stop running from the one thing he never let himself have.
He nods at the honey jar in her hand. “You bring that for anyone specific?” She holds it out, and when he takes it, his fingers brush hers, calloused from years of working with bees, soft in places he didn’t expect. “Heard you build those custom birdhouses now. Was told wildflower honey rubbed on the entrance draws in carpenter bees. Figured you could use it.” She pauses, smirks again, that same teasing edge he likes. “Though if you’d rather pay off the apron debt first, I won’t complain.”
He laughs, loud enough that a couple people at the next picnic table glance over. He tells her he’s got homemade cornbread cooling on his kitchen counter back at the cabin, that it pairs better with honey than any apron show does right now. He expects her to hesitate, to make some joke about moving too fast, but she just nods, slinging her canvas bag over her shoulder. “Lead the way, Voss. But I’m keeping the apron in my truck for later, just in case.”
They walk through the crowd together, his arm brushing hers every few steps, the smell of hickory smoke and barbecue sauce sticking to their clothes, the honey jar cold against his palm where he’s holding it. He opens the passenger door of his beat-up 2008 Ford F150 for her, and she climbs in, setting the honey jar in the cup holder between the seats, her hand brushing his knee for half a second when she adjusts herself. He closes the door behind her, walks around to the driver’s side, pulls open the door, and slides into the seat, the sound of the bluegrass band fading as he turns the key in the ignition.
