Delroy Hanks, 62, retired air traffic controller, stood pressed against the back of the beer cooler at the county fish fry, picking dried breading off a piece of overcooked walleye. He’d only come because his next door neighbor had badgered him for three straight nights, saying sitting in his house alone watching old westerns every weekend was “a waste of perfectly good retirement.” He hated crowds, hated small talk, hated the way every woman his age at these things side-eyed him like he was an eligible prize they could win with a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Since his wife Jan died eight years prior, he’d shut down any attempt at casual connection, convinced even a friendly cup of coffee with someone new was a betrayal of the 34 years they’d had together.
The off-key country cover band shifted to a George Strait deep cut, and the crowd in front of the stage cheered, pressing closer. He felt a warm shoulder bump his bicep, and turned, ready to snap at whoever had wandered too far, until he saw her. Marnie Cole, 48, the new county extension agent he’d only heard about through town gossip, grinning up at him, a plate piled high with hushpuppies in one hand, a sweating can of lemonade in the other. He’d known her when she was 12, a scrawny kid who’d followed Jan around the garden every summer, begging to learn how to grow tomatoes. She’d filled out since then, sun streaks lacing the brown hair pulled back in a messy braid, calloused fingertips peeking out from the cuffs of faded canvas overalls slung over a thin white tank top, smudges of dirt on her forearms from planting wildflowers at the park earlier that day.
“Delroy, I knew that was you,” she yelled over the music, leaning in so he could hear her, the scent of coconut sunscreen and charcoal smoke curling off her shirt. “I drove past your house last week and saw your peach tree is loaded. You used to bring me a bag of those every year before I moved to Kentucky for college, remember?” Her shoulder stayed pressed to his, warm even through his flannel shirt, and he fumbled with his beer can, suddenly unable to remember how to form a full sentence. He nodded, his throat tight, because he did remember, and he hated the jolt of heat that shot up his spine when her knee brushed his as she shifted her weight. It felt wrong. She was almost 15 years younger than him, he’d watched her graduate high school, for Christ’s sake, what the hell was wrong with him?
She must have noticed him tensing up, because she nodded toward the treeline at the edge of the park. “Wanna walk down to the creek? Get away from all this noise?” He hesitated for half a second, glancing over at the group of retired farmers from his church who were watching them from a picnic table, already whispering, then nodded. They walked in silence for a minute, gravel crunching under their work boots, fireflies blinking on and off in the tall grass on either side of the path, the sound of the band fading behind them. She stopped halfway down the path, reaching up to pluck a plump wild blackberry off a bush, holding it out to him between her thumb and forefinger.
He reached for it, and their fingers brushed, the rough callus on her thumb catching on the soft skin of his wrist, and he dropped the blackberry, dark purple juice running down his forearm. She laughed, soft, and before either of them could think about it, she leaned in, licking the streak of juice off his skin, her tongue warm and quick. They froze, eye contact held, neither of them pulling away, the sound of the creek gurgling off to the side the only noise. He didn’t feel guilty, not for that second, didn’t feel like he was doing something wrong, just felt alive, for the first time in years.
They sat down on a fallen log half buried in the grass by the water, and she picked another blackberry, popping it in her own mouth. “Jan would’ve kicked your ass if she knew you’ve been hiding in that house by yourself all these years,” she said, quiet, like she was reading his mind. He laughed, a rough, rusty sound, because she was right. Jan had always told him if anything happened to her, he better not mope around, better go live his life. He asked her if she wanted to come over to his house the next afternoon, he’d make peach pie, they could eat it on the porch. She nodded, grinning, and reached over, lacing her fingers through his, her hand rough and warm against his. He feels the cool creek breeze on his neck, and for the first time in almost a decade, he doesn’t feel guilty for looking forward to the next day.
