Ron Cavanaugh, 58, retired Chicago fire captain, had spent the better part of six months actively avoiding Clara Bennett. He’d first met the 52-year-old county public health nurse at a senior center town hall back in March, when she’d called him out by name for ranting that updated shingles shots were “government overreach” in front of a room full of 70-somethings who’d taken his word as gospel, courtesy of his 32 years of frontline service and the no-nonsense reputation he’d built leading his fire crew. The whole room had snickered when she’d leaned over the podium, silver hoops glinting, and told him if he was too much of a coward to handle a 2-second needle, he could keep his loud opinions to himself. He’d stormed out, and had crossed the street twice when he’d spotted her at the grocery store in the months since, too stubborn to admit she’d had a point, too proud to apologize for acting like a jackass.
He’d only agreed to come to the town’s annual fall craft beer festival because his former crew mate Mike had begged, said Ron was spending too much time holed up in his woodworking shop alone, turning out custom engraved cutting boards for retired firefighters instead of leaving the house for anything other than hardware runs. It was mid-September, the air sharp with wood smoke and the faint tang of fermented hops, the bluegrass band at the far end of the fairgrounds playing a twangy cover of a Johnny Cash song Ron had danced to at his wedding 32 years prior. He was halfway through a hazy IPA, condensation dripping down his wrist onto the scuffed leather of his work boots, when he spotted her. She was wearing a faded green flannel tied around her waist, black tank top, scuffed combat boots, a stack of neon “Flu Shot 2024” stickers peeking out of the back pocket of her jeans. She was laughing at something the guy pouring beer samples said, and when she turned her head, her eyes locked right on his.
He froze, half-hoping she’d look away, but she grinned and started walking over, weaving through the crowd of festival goers in flannel and baseball caps, a half-empty seltzer can in her hand. When she stopped in front of him, she was close enough that he could smell the vanilla of her lip balm and the faint pine scent of the hand sanitizer she used for work. A guy carrying a stack of pepperoni pizza boxes stumbled past, shoving her shoulder into his, and she steadied herself with a hand on his bicep, calloused fingers brushing the faded tattoo of his fire company patch on his arm. “Well, look who dragged himself out of his anti-vax man cave,” she said, smirking up at him. He was taller than her by a good six inches, and her eyes crinkled at the corners when she teased him, a soft detail he’d missed back at the town hall, when he’d been too mad to look at anything other than the name tag pinned to her scrubs.
He scowled, but didn’t step away. “I’m not anti-vax. I just hate needles.” She laughed, loud and warm, and waved the beer vendor over when he approached, ordering a spiced pumpkin ale for both of them. When the vendor handed her the two frosty cups, her hand brushed his when she passed one over, and he felt the small, rough callus on her index finger, the kind you get from sticking hundreds of people with needles every week, year after year. They ended up leaning against the wooden tent pole off to the side, out of the flow of foot traffic, talking over the noise of the band. She told him she’d been working 12-hour shifts for three weeks straight, driving around to rural senior centers to give flu shots, that her ex-husband had left her the year prior, two weeks after their 25th wedding anniversary, for a 28-year-old yoga instructor who sold essential oils on TikTok. He told her about his wife, Karen, who’d died of ovarian cancer four years prior, that he made custom cutting boards engraved with fire company numbers for his former crew in his garage in his spare time, that he’d skipped the shingles shot because he’d watched Karen get stuck with so many needles in her last six months that he couldn’t stand the thought of letting anyone stick him for what felt like no urgent reason.
He was surprised when she didn’t tease him for that. She just nodded, sipping her beer, and said she got it, that she’d had to give her own mother chemo shots in the last year of her life, that she still hated the sight of needles sometimes, even after 27 years in nursing. The sun had gone down by then, and the string lights strung across the tent had come on, casting warm gold light over her face, and he found himself leaning in closer to hear her when the band picked up a faster, foot-stomping track. Her shoulder was pressed to his now, warm through the thin fabric of his gray flannel, and when she turned her head to say something about how the town’s mayor had tried to hit on her at a clinic the week prior, her mouth was inches from his, her breath warm against his cheek.
The first drops of rain started falling a minute later, big, cold drops that splattered on the top of his beer cup and dotted the exposed skin of her forearm. She grabbed his wrist, her fingers curling around his skin, and said she had a cooler of hard seltzer in her SUV parked a hundred yards away, if he wanted to get out of the rain. He hesitated for half a second, guilt niggling at the back of his mind, the familiar voice he’d carried for four years telling him he didn’t get to have fun anymore, that he was supposed to be grieving, that this woman was the same one who’d humiliated him in front of half the town six months prior. But he nodded, and let her pull him through the crowd, their fingers laced together now, rain starting to soak through the sleeves of his shirt and curl the ends of her hair.
They climbed into the front seat of her SUV, the heater blowing warm, vanilla-scented air, the rain tapping hard on the roof loud enough to drown out the distant music from the festival. She reached into the backseat and pulled out a small, cold medical kit, setting it on the center console between them. “I’ve got the shingles vaccine in here, by the way,” she said, grinning as she popped the latch. “I keep a cooler of them in the back for house calls. I’ll give it to you for free, if you stop running away from me at the grocery store.” He laughed, and rolled up his sleeve without arguing. She swabbed his arm with an alcohol pad, the cold liquid making him shiver, and the needle was barely a pinch, just like she’d said. She pressed a sparkly purple unicorn band-aid to the spot, then leaned in and kissed it, soft, her lip balm sticking a little to his skin.
She didn’t pull away after that. She just looked up at him, her eyes dark in the dim light of the parking lot streetlight filtering through the rain-streaked windows, and he leaned in, his hand coming to rest on her waist, and kissed her. She tasted like pumpkin ale and vanilla lip balm, her hand coming up to curl in the gray hair at the nape of his neck, and he didn’t feel guilty, didn’t feel like he was doing something wrong, didn’t even remember the stupid grudge he’d held against her for six months. When they pulled away a minute later, she was smiling, and she reached into the backseat to grab a lime seltzer, popping the top and handing it to him before settling back against the passenger seat, her knee pressed to his. He lingers there, fingers curled lightly around the curve of her hip, and for the first time in four years, he doesn’t feel the urge to apologize for wanting to stay.
