Dale Herron, 58, retired first-class lineman for Toledo Edison, had not so much as looked twice at a woman since his wife Linda died of ovarian cancer seven years prior. His greatest flaw, as his former crew chief liked to tease, was that he was stubborn enough to let grief turn into a self-imposed life sentence. He spent most weekends volunteering at the local fire department’s monthly fish fry, manning the cast-iron fryer until his forearms were streaked with grease and his Carhartt smelled like cod and burnt hushpuppies for three days after. The fry had only just restarted six months earlier, after two years of COVID cancellations that left most of the town’s small social gatherings gathering dust, and Dale had thrown himself into the work harder than ever, if only to avoid the empty silence of his three-bedroom ranch.
The sun was dipping low over the cornfields the first time he saw Clara, painting the picnic area in honeyed gold when she leaned against a splintered folding table, one boot propped on the bench below. He’d not seen Linda’s younger cousin in 12 years, not since the last family reunion before Linda got sick, and he froze mid-toss of a handful of battered cod into the bubbling grease. She’d cut her hair short, auburn streaked with silver at the temples, and she was wearing a faded 2002 Ohio State national championship hoodie and cutoff jean shorts, her legs tanned dark from three months of fixing up the old family farm she’d inherited after her dad died. The divorce that brought her back to town had been messy, he’d heard through the grapevine, but she didn’t look like a woman carrying a load of grief. She looked like she belonged here, like she’d never left.
She pushed off the table and wandered over to the fry station when she spotted him, holding two cold root beers in her calloused hands, and when she held one out to him their fingers brushed. He flinched like he’d touched the hot side of the fryer, his face heating up, and she laughed, a low, rough sound that made his chest feel light in a way he hadn’t felt in years. They talked for 45 minutes straight, leaning against the side of the fire department’s utility trailer, while the line for fish dwindled down to nothing and the rest of the volunteers packed up extra slaw and leftover hushpuppies to take home. She told him about Linda pranking her at summer camp when they were teens, putting a rubber snake in her sleeping bag, and Dale laughed so hard he snort-laughed, something he hadn’t done since before Linda got sick. No one in town talked about Linda like that anymore, like she was a real person who pulled stupid pranks instead of a perfect, sainted dead wife.
The first raindrop hit his cheek right as he was telling her about the time he’d fallen off a power pole three weeks before their wedding, and within 30 seconds the sky opened up, pouring rain so hard everyone scattered for their cars. They grabbed the last of the folding tables, hauling them into the utility shed, and when they both reached for the same stack of plastic chairs their chests bumped. He could smell lavender shampoo mixed with campfire smoke on her hoodie, and he froze, his hands still curled around the edge of the chair, so close he could see the faint smattering of freckles across her nose. He felt sick to his stomach for half a second, guilty like he was cheating on Linda, like he was doing something dirty and wrong, and then she smiled, soft, and the guilt warred with a heat he’d forgotten he was capable of feeling.
He offered to drive her back to the farm when she told him her old Chevy truck had died that morning, and she agreed, sliding into the passenger seat of his beat-up F-150, rain soaking the shoulder of her hoodie. The wipers slapped back and forth across the windshield, loud enough to drown out the old 90s country on the radio, and when he mentioned he still slept on his side of the bed, hadn’t touched Linda’s side or changed her sheets in seven years, she put her hand on his forearm. Her palm was warm through the thin fabric of his work shirt, calloused at the edges from splitting firewood and fixing fence posts, and he didn’t pull away. “Linda would yell at you for being so stubborn, you know that,” she said, quiet, and he pulled over to the side of the dirt road, his tires sinking into the mud.
He turned to look at her, and their eyes locked, no one looking away for ten long seconds, the only sound the rain tapping against the roof and the distant rumble of thunder. He didn’t make the first move. She leaned across the center console, her hand still on his arm, and kissed him, slow, her lips chapped, faint taste of cherry lip balm and root beer. He kissed her back for two heartbeats, then pulled away, his throat tight. “I can’t do this,” he said, and she nodded, not pulling her hand away. “Okay. No pressure. But for what it’s worth, I’ve had a crush on you since I was 16, and Linda knew. She told me once if she ever went first, I should make sure you don’t turn into a hermit who only eats fish fry and frozen burritos for the rest of his life.”
The tension in his chest snapped, all the guilt and fear and self-loathing he’d carried for seven years melting away so fast he felt lightheaded. He kissed her again, this time no hesitation, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing the silver streak at her temple, and for the first time in seven years he didn’t feel like he was betraying Linda. He felt like she was right there, laughing at him for being so stupid for so long.
He followed her into the farmhouse an hour later, the rain slowing to a soft drizzle, and she made meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner, nothing fancy, the kitchen smelling like garlic and ketchup and home. They sat on her front porch after, drinking cheap domestic beer, watching fireflies blink on and off across the hayfield, and when she shifted closer their knees touched, rough denim against rough denim. He didn’t pull away. He picked up his beer, took a long sip, and let the cool, bitter taste settle warm in his chest.
