Hank Colton, 58, retired high-voltage lineman with a scar slicing through his left eyebrow and a grudge he’d carried for six months against the county’s new health director, leaned against the splintered wooden pole of the VFW beer tent and stared at the foam on his third lager of the night. He’d spent the last two years bitching about COVID restrictions canceling the town’s annual summer street fair, and when Clara Bennett had finally signed off on the permit back in May, he’d still found a reason to gripe: she’d added a stupid rule about hand sanitizer stations every ten feet, like the whole town hadn’t already survived the worst of it. He’d avoided every public meeting she’d hosted, had even walked the other way when he saw her in the grocery store produce aisle last month.
The crowd pressed in around him as the first firework boomed overhead, painting the dark sky neon pink, and suddenly she was right next to him, shoulder to shoulder, her denim jacket brushing the bare skin of his forearm where his flannel was rolled up. He stiffened. She was holding a plastic cup of something amber, her short auburn hair streaked with gray at the temples, a smudge of charcoal from the grill on her left cheek. He’d never been that close to her before. He could smell coconut shampoo and a hint of bourbon under the scent of grilled brats and burnt sugar from the cotton candy stand two booths over.
“Colton, right?” She raised her voice over the roar of the crowd, turning to face him, and her knee knocked his when she shifted her weight. “I’ve been trying to catch you for weeks. The high school shop teacher told me you’ve been dropping off scrap transmission line for the kids to practice welding on. That’s real nice of you.”
Hank blinked. He’d told no one about that. He’d just dropped the spools off at the back door after hours, figured no one would ask questions. He grunted, took a sip of beer, and tried not to stare at the freckles across her nose. “Didn’t make a big deal out of it.”
“Most people would.” She smiled, and he noticed the little crease at the corner of her left eye, the way her front tooth was just barely crooked. “I get it. You don’t like me. Thought I was some city bureaucrat coming in to ruin all your fun, right? I read the comment section on the fair permit post. You left three separate rants about ‘government overreach’ when we proposed limiting attendance last year.”
Hank felt his face heat up. He’d been drunk when he typed those. He shifted his weight, and his hand brushed hers where they were both leaning against the pole. Her skin was warm, calloused on the palm, like she worked with her hands too. “You got me there. Figured you’d never let us have the fair back, honestly.”
“Nah. I grew up on a hog farm outside Terre Haute. I know how much this stupid fair means to people.” She laughed, a rough, honeyed sound that cut through the boom of another firework. “I spent three months arguing with the state board to let us run it at full capacity. Even brought them photos of last year’s drive-thru corn dog stand to prove we could pull it off safely.”
They talked for ten minutes, fireworks bursting above, the crowd cheering every time a bright gold spray painted the sky. Hank found himself leaning in closer to hear her, their shoulders pressed tight now, no space between them. She told him she’d been a travel nurse for 15 years before taking the health director job, moved here after her sister died to care for her 16-year-old niece. He told her about Linda, his wife of 28 years, who’d died of breast cancer seven years prior, how he’d started dropping off scrap wire because she’d pushed him to teach shop at the rec center back in the 90s.
A low whistling cut through the air, and a firework burst 50 feet lower than planned, showering sparks over the edge of the crowd. Everyone jumped, and Clara grabbed Hank’s bicep hard, fingers digging into muscle, her face inches from his. He could feel her breath on his cheek, see flecks of gold in her brown eyes, and for a second he froze, fighting the pull low in his gut: the guilt of wanting anyone but Linda, the embarrassment of hating this woman six months prior, the quiet terror of feeling something that sharp again.
He didn’t overthink it. He leaned down and kissed her, soft at first, just a press of his lips to hers, and when she kissed him back, her hand moving from his bicep to the back of his neck, he let go of all the stupid reasons he’d spent seven years keeping everyone at arm’s length. The fireworks boomed overhead, the crowd cheered, and he didn’t care who saw them.
The last firework faded to black a few minutes later, and the crowd dispersed, people yelling to each other as they headed for their cars. Clara pulled back, swiping her thumb across his lower lip where her lip gloss had smudged, and smiled. “There’s a 24-hour diner on the edge of town that makes chocolate chip pancakes big enough to feed a lineman. You wanna go?”
Hank nodded, grabbed his jacket from the pole behind him, and held the tent flap open for her. When she stepped through, she laced her fingers through his, her calloused palm fitting perfectly in his, and he squeezed her hand as they stepped over a broken plastic cup on the curb.
