Clay Bennett, 58, retired lineman for the Auglaize County electric co-op, leans against a splintered picnic table at the annual fire department BBQ, foam koozie wrapped around a cheap lager, the scar across his left forearm throbbing a little in the humidity. The scar’s from 2019, when he spent 14 hours repairing downed lines during the tornado that took out half the west side of town, and he still taps it when he’s annoyed, which is most days these days. He’s avoided every town event for three months, ever since he yelled at the new public health nurse for making him wear a mask to get his shingles shot, and he only showed up tonight because his buddy Jim begged him to help man the beer tent, and Jim owed him a favor for fixing his transmission last winter. The air reeks of charcoal and smoked brisket, the country cover band off to the left is butchering a Luke Combs track, and half the town’s already three deep at the bar, yelling over each other about corn prices and the upcoming school board election.
He’s mid-eye roll at a guy complaining about the new bike lanes when he sees her. Mara Carter, 52, the nurse in question, is walking toward him holding a paper plate heaped high with brisket and coleslaw, white sneakers caked with mud from the wet grass, a smudge of barbecue sauce on the corner of her mouth. Her boot catches on a loose edge of the picnic table bench when she’s two feet away, and she stumbles, her palm slapping against his bicep to catch her balance. He can feel the heat of her hand through the thin cotton of his rolled-up flannel, smells coconut sunscreen and the faint sweet tang of cherry pie on her breath when she laughs, the sound bright enough to cut through the band’s noise. She holds eye contact for two full beats longer than polite, swiping a strand of gray-streaked auburn hair behind her ear before she pulls her hand away, apologizing for nearly taking him out with her terrible sense of coordination.
He mumbles that it’s fine, taps the scar on his forearm twice, immediately kicks himself for not saying something smoother. He’d spent three months ranting to Jim that she was just another power-hungry bureaucrat pushing COVID rules that didn’t make sense, that all women his age were just looking for a steady check and a guy to mow their lawn, that he was better off alone in his trailer with his dog and his old football tapes. But right now, he can’t stop staring at the way her sun-faded denim shirt fits her shoulders, at the faint laugh lines around her hazel eyes, at the smudge of sauce still sitting on her chin. She sits down across from him, sliding a cold can of IPA across the table to replace his half-empty lager, and her fingers brush his when he grabs it, the condensation from the can dripping onto his wrist in the exact spot her palm pressed a minute earlier. She teases him for wearing flannel in 82 degree heat, says she’d pegged him as the kind of guy who’d walk through a blizzard in a t-shirt to prove a point, and he snorts before he can stop himself, teasing her back for wearing white sneakers to a BBQ where the mud’s been known to steal boots right off people’s feet.
They talk for 40 minutes, the noise of the crowd fading into background static. She admits she hated the mask rules too, that her boss in Columbus made her enforce them even when she thought they were unnecessary, that she’d laughed for ten minutes after he stormed out of the clinic that day, because he was the only person who’d said out loud what everyone else was whispering. He admits he’d avoided every town event since then because he felt like an idiot for yelling at her, that he’d even driven three towns over to get his flu shot last fall just so he wouldn’t have to see her. She leans forward across the table, elbows resting on the worn wood, and her knee brushes his under the bench, the pressure light enough that he almost thinks he imagined it, until she does it again. She says she noticed he was gone, that she kept an eye out for him every time she was at the co-op dropping off flyers for free blood pressure screenings. He reaches across the table before he can overthink it, dabbing the barbecue sauce off her chin with the pad of his thumb, his calloused skin brushing the soft corner of her mouth, and he doesn’t pull his hand away for three full seconds. She doesn’t flinch, just smiles, her eyes darkening a little as she holds his gaze.
The band switches to a slow Johnny Cash cover as the sun dips below the oak trees lining the fairgrounds, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and soft rose, fireflies starting to blink on in the tall grass at the edge of the field. She stands up, wiping crumbs off her jeans, and holds out her hand to him, the side of her index finger rough with a callus from writing hundreds of patient notes every week. She asks if he wants to walk down to the creek behind the fairgrounds, says the fireflies are thick there this time of year, and that she brought a six pack of his favorite lager in her truck just in case she ran into him. He slips his calloused, scarred hand into hers, lets her pull him up off the bench, and doesn’t even glance back at the beer tent where Jim’s waving at him, yelling something about ditching his shift. The grass is cool under his boots, her hand fits perfectly in his, and he can hear her laugh as she tugs him toward the tree line.
