Moe Sorrentino, 58, retired utility lineman, only showed up to the small-town Ohio summer street fair because his former crew chief begged him to, said the guys were all meeting at the beer tent to shoot the shit about the 2017 ice storm that took out half the county’s power lines for three weeks. Moe still had a thin, pale scar slicing across his right eyebrow from that storm, a souvenir from a falling tree branch that knocked him 10 feet off a pole, and he figured he owed the guys at least one beer. He leaned against a splintered wooden fence post, sweating through the collar of his sun-faded navy flannel—he never could stand short sleeves, even in 85 degree heat—twisting the cap off a cold Pabst with calloused fingers so thick and scarred he could barely feel the ridges of the plastic.
He spotted her across the tent halfway through his second beer. Clara Hale, the 42-year-old librarian who ran the tiny branch on Main Street. He’d only ever exchanged half-nods with her when he dropped off his late mom’s old western paperback collection last year, and he’d always thought of her as the most straitlaced woman in town, the kind who wore turtlenecks even in June and shushed people for whispering too loud in the stacks. He’d stumbled on her OnlyFans by accident three weeks prior, scrolling late at night after a bad bout of insomnia, and he’d frozen when he recognized the tiny, silvery scar curling around her left wrist, the same one he’d seen when she handed him a receipt for the book donation. He’d felt like a pervert at first, angry at himself for looking, angry that a woman he’d pegged as so boring and proper would be posting photos of herself in nothing but a tool belt and work boots, a nod to the local tradesmen who’d helped fix the library’s leaky roof the year before. He’d lingered anyway, liked the post before he could think better of it, and had avoided driving past the library ever since, too embarrassed to make eye contact.
She waved before he could duck behind the guy selling deep-fried Oreos, and started walking toward him, her gingham sundress swishing around her calves, strappy tan sandals kicking up small clouds of dust from the fairground grass. He panicked, tilting his beer a little too far, spilling an inch of suds down the front of his flannel. “Nice shirt,” she said when she was close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, sweet scent of cherry lip gloss on her breath, hear the soft jingle of the tiny silver hoop earrings she wore, the exact same pair she’d had on in that video he’d watched twice last Tuesday. She reached out without thinking, brushing a stray splinter off his sleeve, her warm, soft fingers brushing the hair on his forearm, and he felt a jolt run all the way down to the steel toes of his work boots.
He mumbled something about the beer being slippery, staring at the scuff marks on his boots instead of her face, and she laughed, a low, warm sound he’d never heard before. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, by the way,” she said, leaning against the fence post next to him, close enough that her shoulder was an inch from his. “You fixed my gutter back in April when that wind storm knocked it off. I left a plate of chocolate chip cookies on your porch, but I don’t think you ever saw them.” He had seen them, actually, he’d thought they were from the kid down the street who mowed his lawn, and he’d eaten three in one sitting before he realized he didn’t know who they were from. He told her that, and she laughed again, tilting her head back, sun catching the streak of silver in her dark brown hair.
He was stiff as a board at first, his hands hovering awkwardly at her waist, scared to touch her too hard, scared he’d step on her feet. She leaned in a little, her shoulder brushing his chest, and her breath was warm against his ear when she spoke. “I saw you liked that post, by the way. The one with the tool belt. Figured a retired lineman would appreciate the work boots.” He froze, his face going bright red, ready to stammer out an apology, ready to tell her he was a creep, that he’d never look again, but she squeezed his shoulder, laughing softly. “Relax. Half the town’s married guys send me gross DMs every day. You just left a like. I thought it was sweet.”
He laughed then, a loud, rough sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in years, and he let his hands settle a little firmer at her waist, swaying with her to the music, the noise of the fair fading into the background for a minute. When the song ended, she didn’t let go of his hand. “I’ve got a cooler of mango hard seltzer back at my place,” she said, nodding toward the street that led out of the fairgrounds. “The fireworks are gonna be loud as hell here in an hour, and I’ve got a porch with a much better view. You wanna come?”
He didn’t hesitate, grabbing his jacket off the fence post, his calloused hand tangled in hers as they walked away from the crowd, the sound of the band and the screaming kids on the carnival rides getting quieter with every step. When she paused to kick off her strappy sandals and tuck them under one arm to walk across the cool dewy grass, he found he was already looking forward to teasing her about the mismatched polka dot socks she’d hidden under her shoes all night.
