Moe Sorrentino, 62, retired high-voltage lineman with a scar snaking up his left forearm from a 2018 storm line repair, hunched over a chipped plastic plate of baked beans at the town’s Fourth of July picnic. He’d only shown up because his old crew had banged on his front door at 10 a.m. that morning, beers already in hand, calling him a hermit until he caved and pulled on his faded UT Vols cap and scuffed work boots. The air smelled like charcoal smoke and cherry Kool-Aid, kids screaming as they chased each other across the grass with water guns, and he’d planned to sneak out after an hour max, head back to his quiet porch and the half-empty bottle of bourbon he’d stashed by the rocking chair.
He was halfway to standing when someone dropped a canvas tote on the seat next to him, and a woman slid into the space so close her denim-clad knee brushed his under the picnic table. He froze. No one had been that close to him, not on purpose, in almost 8 years, not since his wife Linda drew her last breath in the hospital bed in their living room. He glanced over, quick, and took in her sun-freckled cheeks, the silver streak running through the front of her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, hazel eyes crinkling as she waved at a toddler tottering past. She was Clara, his next-door neighbor’s niece, he remembered, the travel nurse who’d moved in last month between assignments in Florida and Oregon.
She turned to him then, held out a plastic container of deviled eggs, and her forearm brushed the raised scar on his arm as she passed it over. He flinched before he could stop himself, the old nerve damage making the skin extra sensitive, and she pulled back fast, apologetic. “Sorry, I’m all elbows today. My aunt says I’ve been clumsy since I was 12 and broke my arm falling off a horse.” He grunted, shook his head, picked up one of the eggs. The yolk was creamy, dusted with paprika, better than the ones Linda used to make, and the thought made a hot twist of guilt curl in his gut. “Scar’s just tender,” he said, nodding at his arm. “Got it fixing a downed line in that ice storm a few years back.”
They talked for 40 minutes, without him even noticing. She teased him about the Vols cap, said she’d grown up outside Huntsville and bled crimson and white for Alabama, and he pretended to be outraged, threatened to toss her half-full sweet tea into the lake down the hill. Her knee stayed pressed to his the whole time, never pulling away, and every time she laughed, a low, warm, gravelly sound, he felt that tug of something he hadn’t felt in years, equal parts want and shame, like he was cheating on Linda just by enjoying the conversation. He kept thinking he should leave, should make an excuse about feeding his cat, but every time he opened his mouth to say it, she’d say something else, about working in a COVID ICU in 2020, about how she’d spent last Fourth of July eating takeout alone in a hotel room in Tampa, and he couldn’t make himself walk away.
The first firework went off with a loud boom overhead, painting the darkening sky bright pink, and the crowd around them surged to their feet, a group of teen boys shoving past to get a better view. Clara stumbled, caught herself on his bicep, and moved closer, her shoulder pressing to his chest, the faint smell of lavender perfume mixing with the smoke from the fireworks drifting over the lake. He hesitated for half a second, then wrapped his arm loosely around her waist, just enough to keep her from getting jostled again, his calloused palm resting light on the soft fabric of her cotton sundress. She didn’t pull away. Leaned into him a little, actually, her head tilting back so she could see the bursts of blue and green overhead, and the guilt that had been gnawing at him all evening softened, just a little. Linda had always told him he was too stubborn for his own good, had made him promise before she died that he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life alone. He’d thought that meant hanging out with his old crew, fishing, fixing lawnmowers. He hadn’t thought it meant this.
When the last firework faded, the crowd cheered, then started to disperse, people folding up blankets herding kids toward the parking lot. Clara pulled back a little to look up at him, the leftover glow of the explosions painting her cheeks pink, and asked if he wanted to go get a chocolate milkshake at the old diner on Main Street, the one that stayed open until 2 a.m. on holidays. He paused, just for a beat, then grinned, nodded. “I’ll buy,” he said, “but only if you admit the Vols are gonna beat Bama this fall.” She laughed, punched his arm lightly, said he’d be waiting a long time for that, but she’d come anyway.
He tossed his empty paper plate in the trash can by the picnic table, held his arm out, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, her fingers warm against his skin through the thin fabric of his work shirt. The scuffed toes of his work boots kicked a loose gravel pebble across the asphalt as they stepped off the curb toward his truck, her hand still warm and steady against his forearm.
