Moe Sorrentino, 61, spent 32 years teaching high school shop before retiring to restore vintage cast iron cookware out of his Akron garage. He’s stubborn to a fault, has avoided even casual dates since his wife left him eight years prior, convinced any connection would only end in the same messy, bitter fight that split his marriage. The faint scar across his left knuckle, from a 2009 table saw accident, throbs a little when he’s nervous, and he still chews wintergreen Skoal even though his doctor begged him to quit after his last checkup.
He’d shown up to the VFW fish fry only to drop off a fully restored 1950s Dutch oven for the annual raffle, planned to grab one slice of peach cobbler and bolt before any of his old students’ parents could corner him to ask for free repair work. The air reeked of fried cod, vinegar coleslaw, and the sticky sweet fog of draft beer, the jukebox in the corner spitting out scratchy Merle Haggard tracks that made his chest feel tight in a good way. He reached for the last foil-wrapped cobbler slice on the dessert table at the exact same time as a woman with a streak of silver in her dark brown braid, work boots caked in mud, and their knuckles brushed.
He recognized her immediately: Lila Marlow, his ex-wife’s younger half-sister, 48, a farrier who’d moved back to town six months prior after her husband died in a logging accident up in Ashtabula. He’d had a stupid, harmless crush on her since his wedding day in 1989, when she’d showed up in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, spent the whole reception hanging out in the garage with him talking about his motorcycle instead of dancing with the other guests. He’d buried that crush deep, told himself it was wrong, that even thinking about her was a betrayal of the marriage he’d been trying to make work for 25 years.
Her thumb had a thick, rough callus from nailing horseshoes all day, and when their hands touched he felt a jolt go up his arm that had nothing to do with static. She grinned, the same gap between her two front teeth he’d always thought was unfairly cute, and said she’d been meaning to message him on the local cast iron Facebook group for weeks, needed him to fix a dented 1932 skillet her dad had left her when he died. He hesitated, his first thought being how his ex would scream so loud half the west side of Akron would hear if she found out he was even talking to Lila, but then she tilted her head and held his gaze a beat too long, and he said he’d take a look at it whenever she wanted.
They stood by the dessert table for 20 minutes, talking, their shoulders brushing every time someone squeezed past them in the narrow aisle. She laughed so hard at his story about his ex burning three grilled cheeses in the exact same skillet model she was asking him to fix that she snort-laughed, and he didn’t even care that half the people in the room were staring, probably already texting his ex about what they’d seen. When he said he was heading out, she mentioned her truck was in the shop, asked if he could give her a ride home, and he agreed before he could overthink it.
The rain was coming down hard when they stepped outside, fat cold drops soaking through the collar of his flannel before he could yank his old Carhartt work jacket off and hold it over both their heads. They huddled close as they ran to his beat-up 2008 F-150, her side pressed tight to his, the smell of her lavender shampoo mixing with the rain and the fried cod still clinging to his shirt. She stopped under the overhang of the porch for half a second, reached up, and brushed a fleck of fried batter off his cheek, her palm warm against his skin.
She told him she’d known about his crush back when he was married, that she’d had one too, used to make up excuses to come over to his and her sister’s house just to watch him work on his motorcycle in the garage. He felt the knot of guilt he’d been carrying for 34 years loosen all at once, like he’d been holding his breath for decades and finally got to exhale. He didn’t care about the gossip, didn’t care what his ex would say, didn’t care about any of the stupid rules he’d made for himself to avoid getting hurt again.
He pulled into her driveway ten minutes later, the rain still tapping steady against the truck windows, and she invited him inside to see the skillet. He wiped his boots on her scuffed welcome mat, the sound of her golden retriever barking inside mixing with the soft patter of rain on the roof, and followed her across the threshold.
