Rafe Mendez, 62, retired air traffic controller, had only agreed to enter his peach jam in the Maricopa County Fair competition because his 10-year-old granddaughter had begged him for three weeks straight. Third place, a crumpled orange ribbon pinned to the breast of his worn gray flannel, felt like enough of a win to justify lingering past the awards ceremony, even when the rest of his family piled into his son’s truck to head home for barbecue. He’d spent 32 years of his career mapping every possible variable, accounting for every unexpected gust of wind, every split-second miscommunication that could send hundreds of people plunging to their deaths, so the unplanned hour of wandering the fairgrounds alone felt like a tiny, harmless rebellion. He found himself at the craft beer tent by 7 PM, when the sun was dipping low enough to paint the sky tangerine and the crowd had thinned out just enough to skip the 20-minute line he’d seen earlier.
He reached for the last cold hazy IPA on the ice chest at the same time as a woman’s hand, his calloused knuckles brushing the soft, warm skin of her wrist. He pulled back immediately, muttering an apology, before he recognized her: Janine Hale, wife of the county sheriff, his high school lab partner he hadn’t spoken to at length since their 30th reunion eight years prior. She laughed, a low, throaty sound he remembered from when they’d snuck firecrackers into the school parking lot senior year, and waved off his apology, pushing the beer toward him. “You earned it, jam king,” she said, nodding at his orange ribbon, and he felt the back of his neck heat up like he was 17 again, fumbling to pour the right chemical into a beaker so they wouldn’t get sent to detention. The country cover band playing at the adjacent stage cranked up their volume mid-song, so she leaned in closer to talk, her bare shoulder pressing firm against his bicep, the faint scent of coconut shampoo and powdered sugar from the fried dough she’d eaten earlier curling into his nose.
He knew he should make an excuse to leave. Everyone in the county knew who Janine was, knew her husband had been sheriff for 12 years, knew they’d been married for 37. Rafe had spent decades avoiding even the hint of impropriety, ever since a split-second mistake his first year on the job had almost caused a mid-air collision between two passenger jets, leaving him with a permanent knot in his shoulder and a rule that he never, ever took unnecessary risks. Since his wife died of breast cancer seven years prior, he’d extended that rule to his personal life, turning down setups from friends, avoiding even casual flirts with the cashier at his local grocery store, convinced any deviation from his quiet routine would end in disaster. But she was telling him about her grandkids, how they’d dragged her on the Tilt-A-Whirl three times in a row until she thought she was going to throw up, and she was grinning so wide the crinkles at the corners of her eyes deepened, and he couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye. She kept leaning in whenever she talked, her face inches from his, her eyes flicking down to his mouth every few seconds like she was checking to see if he was listening. When a group of rowdy teens stumbled past them, she grabbed his forearm to steady herself, her fingers lingering on the muscle there for three full beats before she pulled away, like she’d forgotten she was touching him.
They wandered to the far side of the tent, away from the crowd and the blaring music, leaning against the rough wooden support posts to get out of the breeze picking up off the desert. She told him, quiet enough that he had to lean in to hear her, that she and the sheriff had been sleeping in separate bedrooms for three months, that they were filing for divorce after the election in November, that no one but their lawyer knew yet. Rafe’s throat went dry. He’d heard the rumors, of course, small towns run on gossip, but he’d never thought she’d admit it out loud, not to him. He reached out before he could think better of it, brushing a smudge of pink cotton candy off the inside of her wrist with his thumb, the skin there soft and warm under his touch. She didn’t pull away. She tilted her chin up, her dark eyes locking onto his, and he could feel her breath on his jaw, sweet with the strawberry seltzer she’d been drinking, and for half a second he was sure she was going to kiss him.
He heard the sheriff’s voice boom from the tent entrance, calling Janine’s name, before he could make a move either way. She jumped a little, pulling back fast, adjusting the strap of her faded blue sundress like she was making sure she looked put together. She reached into her purse, pulled out a crumpled cocktail napkin, scribbled something on it with a ballpoint pen, and tucked it into the pocket of his flannel, her fingers brushing his chest through the fabric. “Don’t call until next week,” she said, quiet, a secret little smile playing on her lips, before she turned and walked back toward the entrance, slipping her hand into the crook of the sheriff’s arm like nothing was out of the ordinary. Rafe stood there for a minute, sipping his cold beer, the fizz burning the back of his throat, his fingers curled around the napkin in his pocket. He pulled the napkin out of his pocket, unfolded it, and traced the scrawled numbers with the tip of his index finger, the ink still smudged a little from where she’d pressed too hard with the pen.
