Clay Hadley, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service wildland firefighter, nursed a Bulleit bourbon on the third stool at The Wagon Wheel, scuffing the sticky linoleum with the toe of his steel-toed work boot. He’d avoided the post-Fourth of July parade crowd for seven straight years, ever since his wife Diane died of breast cancer, but his old fire crew buddy had practically dragged him out, muttering something about him turning into a hermit who only talked to his hound dog. The bar reeked of fried pickles and cheap draft beer, the jukebox spitting out a scratchy cut of Johnny Cash’s *Folsom Prison Blues* that made his chest hum with the familiar bass line.
He was wiping condensation off the side of his glass when Lila Carter slid onto the stool two over, the hem of her cutoff jeans brushing his calf as she shifted. He knew her, of course—she was his next door neighbor Marge’s daughter, the kid he’d taught to build a bluebird house when she was 16, before she moved to Chicago for college and a marriage that had blown up six months prior. She’d moved back two weeks earlier, and he’d helped her haul a stack of ceramic pottery boxes up her mom’s back steps, his back aching for three days after. She’d brought him a loaf of sourdough as thanks, still warm from the oven, that he’d eaten half of in one sitting.
She leaned past him to grab the napkin dispenser 10 minutes later, the unbuttoned top of her linen blouse brushing his forearm, the scent of coconut sunscreen and cherry hard candy curling into his nose. He froze, his grip on his bourbon glass tightening, a sharp twist of disgust curling in his gut at the jolt of heat he felt, angry at himself for even looking at Marge’s kid like that, and she smirked like she knew exactly what she’d done, settling back into her stool with a can of lime seltzer. Her knee bumped his under the bar when she swiveled to wave at a group of farmers market volunteers across the room, warm and solid, and he didn’t shift away.
The psychological tug of war stretched tighter the longer they talked. Half of him screamed that this was wrong—she was 16 years his junior, everyone in town had watched her grow up, the church bake sale crowd would whisper about him being a lech, Marge would never leave peach pie on his porch rail again, he was betraying Diane by even entertaining the thought of being with anyone else. The other half, the half that hadn’t felt a single spark of anything besides duty and grief in seven years, hummed at the way she kept leaning in when he talked, her hazel eyes locked on his, no shyness, no game playing, no pity for the sad widower down the street. When she mentioned the oak fence in her mom’s backyard that had blown over in the previous week’s thunderstorm, he offered to fix it for free that Saturday, like he did for every elderly neighbor in town.
She shook her head, her sun-streaked blonde hair falling over her shoulder, and rested her hand on his forearm for two slow beats, her palm calloused from throwing pottery, warm through the thin fabric of his worn forest service flannel. “Mom’s out of town visiting my sister in Knoxville until Sunday,” she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear it over the roar of the bar. “Come over tonight. I’ll make you burgers. We can fix the fence tomorrow, if you still want.”
He hesitated for 10 full seconds, the sound of the jukebox fading into a buzz in his ears. He thought of the nosy old ladies who’d tsk if they saw him walking into Marge’s house after dark, the way he’d spent seven years deliberately building walls between himself and everyone else to avoid the pain of losing someone again. He thought of the way her hand felt on his arm, the way she’d laughed so hard at his dumb joke about the parade’s terrible clown float that she’d snort-loud enough that people at the next table turned to look, the way she didn’t tiptoe around mentions of Diane like everyone else in town did.
He nodded, and her grin was bright enough to outshine the string lights strung across the bar ceiling. They stayed for another 45 minutes, talking about the fire station’s upcoming pancake breakfast, her small-batch pottery business, the way black bears had been raiding bird feeders all over town that summer. Her shoulder kept brushing his, and every time she laughed she’d lean into him just a little, her elbow digging into his ribs playfully when he teased her about burning the edges of the sourdough she’d brought him.
When they left the bar, the parking lot was dark, fireflies flickering in the oak trees lining the street, distant booms of leftover fireworks echoing off the Blue Ridge peaks. She stopped next to the driver’s side door of her beat up Tacoma, stepping close enough that he could feel the heat coming off her skin, and reached up to brush a stray piece of parade confetti off the collar of his flannel. “I’m not a kid, Clay,” she said, quiet and steady, no hint of teasing. “I know what I want. If you don’t, that’s fine. But don’t say no just because you’re scared of what a bunch of bored old people will say.”
He didn’t answer, just leaned down and kissed her, the taste of lime seltzer and cherry lollipop on her lips, her hand curling into the collar of his shirt to pull him closer. He could hear a group of teens hooting as they walked past the parking lot, but he didn’t care, not for the first time in seven years.
When they pulled apart, she told him she’d leave the back porch light on for him, and he nodded, walking back to his own beat up Ford F-150. He drove the three blocks home, stopping on his porch to grab his work gloves off the step, glancing at the half-eaten peach pie Marge had left him that morning sitting on the rail. He shook his head, grinning, locked his front door, and climbed back into his truck to drive back to her house.
