Cole Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service ranger, had spent the last seven years cultivating a reputation as the grumpiest part-time pourer at Asheville’s Catawba Brewing taproom. His flaw, if you asked his few close friends, was that he’d buried every romantic impulse the day his wife Linda died of ovarian cancer, claiming he was “too old to learn to share a fridge with someone new”. He’d never admit the quiet loneliness that settled in his chest when he came home to an empty cabin every night, or that he’d signed up to man the brewery’s pop-up at the annual downtown chili cookoff specifically to avoid sitting alone watching old westerns that Saturday.
The October air bit at his cheeks as the sun dipped below the Blue Ridge ridgeline, turning the sky a soft bruised orange. He was wiping down a dented pint glass when he heard the laugh, low and throaty, the kind that cut through the hum of the crowd and the twang of the bluegrass band playing three booths over. He looked up to see Mara Carter leaning against the edge of the pop-up’s wooden counter, one boot propped on the lower rail, a silver streak slicing through her dark chestnut hair where she’d stopped dyeing it two years prior. He hadn’t seen her in 12 years, not since Linda’s funeral, when she’d hugged him tight, smelled like lavender, and moved to Portland the next week. She was Linda’s first cousin, the one who’d drawn silly caricatures of everyone at family barbecues, who’d snuck him a hit of her weed at Linda’s 30th birthday party when Linda was too pregnant to join in.
She ordered a hazy IPA, the same one he’d hoarded in the back of his fridge for years, and when she reached across the counter to take it, their knuckles brushed. He felt the rough callus on her index finger, the same one she’d had from holding a Wacom pen 12 hours a day for her graphic design job, and a jolt went up his arm that he hadn’t felt since he was in his 30s. He forced himself to lean back, cross his arms, reminded himself this was family, that this was off limits, that the last thing he needed was to mess up what was left of Linda’s family ties.
She teased him about the gray in his beard, about the fact he still wore the same scuffed work boots he’d had when they first met, about how he still refused to put enough hot sauce in his chili. She grabbed a sample of her own entry from the booth next door, held it out to him, and when he leaned in to take a bite, her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, wiping away a dollop of chili grease. He froze, the heat of the spice and the heat of her touch both burning in his skin. She didn’t pull away, just held his eye contact, the corner of her mouth ticked up in a half smile that said she knew exactly what she was doing.
By the time the cookoff wrapped up at 8, he’d given her three free beers, had forgotten to check his phone once, and had laughed so hard at a story about her terrible first date in Portland that his sides hurt. They wandered away from the crowd, down the sidewalk toward the French Broad, crunching over fallen oak leaves that smelled like damp earth and cinnamon. They stopped at a splintered picnic table half-hidden by pine trees, the sound of the river rushing soft in the background, a fire pit 20 feet away throwing off golden light that gilded the edges of her hair.
She leaned in, elbows on the table, and told him she’d had a crush on him since she was 22, when she’d watched him carry Linda to the car after she’d twisted her ankle at a family hike, had spent 20 years not saying a word because it wasn’t the right time. Cole’s chest went tight. Part of him felt sick, guilty, like he was betraying Linda by even listening. The other part of him, the part that had been asleep for seven years, was thrumming, alive, curious, like he’d just been handed a second chance he never thought he deserved. He didn’t pull away when she rested her hand on his wrist, her palm warm through the flannel of his shirt, her thumb brushing the scar on his forearm he’d gotten cutting down a dead pine in Glacier National Park in 2004.
He told her he didn’t know what to say, that he felt like he was doing something wrong. She nodded, said she got it, said they could take it as slow as he wanted, no pressure, no expectations, just two people who’d known each other forever and liked each other’s company. They sat there for another hour, talking about Linda, about the stupid family trips they’d all taken to the coast, about the way she’d always hated that Linda had never appreciated how good he was to her.
He walked her to her car a little after 9, the air now cold enough that he could see his breath. She paused by the driver’s side door, leaned up, and kissed him on the cheek, her lips soft, the lavender of her shampoo filling his nose. She told him she’d text him in the morning to meet for coffee at that little diner he used to take Linda to on weekends. He nodded, watched her get in the car, watched the taillights fade down the street. He lifted his hand, pressed his fingers to the spot on his cheek where her lips had been, the cool night air biting at his knuckles.
