Clay Bennett leans against the dented passenger side of his 2007 F150, styrofoam cup of cheap lager sweating through the cuff of his faded navy flannel. The air at the annual fire department rib cookoff reeks of hickory smoke and charred meat, cornhole bags thud against wooden boards ten feet away, and a group of retired firefighters yell over each other about a high school football game from 1978. He’s 58, four years retired from the county electric co-op, and he’s already made up his mind to leave as soon as he finishes the half-rack of ribs sitting on the truck bed next to him. He hasn’t stayed for the full cookoff since his wife Diane died, hates the way people give him those soft, pitying looks when they think he’s not looking. His biggest flaw, one he won’t admit out loud, is that he’s spent four years shutting down every friendly advance from women in town, convinced any new connection would be a betrayal of the 36 years he and Diane shared.
He’s mid-bite of a rib slathered in spicy sauce when he spots her. Maren Hale, 52, the new public health nurse, Diane’s childhood best friend’s little sister, the same girl who crashed his dirt bike back in 1989 and left a half-inch scar above her left eyebrow that’s still visible even with the stray strands of gray-streaked auburn hair falling across her face. She’s wearing high-waisted raw hem jeans, a faded Patagonia tee that says “Get Your Flu Shot”, and scuffed white sneakers, and when she catches him staring, she grins and heads straight for him. Clay’s jaw tightens. He’d always thought she hated him, that she’d bought into the idea he was a reckless jerk who didn’t deserve Diane’s quiet patience.
She stops six inches from his boots, close enough he can smell citrus hand soap and peppermint lip balm over the smoke. “Still drinking Pabst, I see,” she says, nodding at his cup. When she reaches out to tap the side of it, her knuckles brush his wrist, and his skin prickles like he just touched a live wire. He doesn’t pull away. She hoists herself onto the truck bed next to him, and their knees press together for half a second before she shifts, leaving an inch of space between them, enough that he can still feel the heat off her leg through two layers of denim.
He tells himself he should make an excuse to leave. That the town gossips are already craning their necks to look at them, that Diane would roll her eyes if she saw him sitting this close to her best friend’s baby sister, that he’s too old for whatever this is. But then she mentions she saw the peony bush in his front yard last week when she was doing a home health visit down the street, that Diane used to bring peonies to every book club meeting she hosted, and his chest tightens. No one’s mentioned that small, specific detail to him in three years. “I still plant new bulbs every spring,” he says, before he can think better of it.
They talk for 45 minutes, the crowd around them thinning as the sun dips below the treeline. She teases him about the time he showed up to Diane’s 21st birthday party covered in mud from fixing a downed power line mid-party, he teases her about the time she tried to sneak a six pack into the county fair and got caught by the sheriff. She laughs loud, head tilted back, and he can’t stop staring at the way the corner of her mouth crinkles when she smiles. When a fat raindrop hits his cheek, he looks up, and the sky opens up all at once, cold rain pouring down so hard he can barely see the food tents 20 feet away.
“Car’s parked six blocks over,” she yells over the sound of the rain, holding her jacket over her head. “Got here late, all the close spots were taken.” He nods, grabs his keys off his belt loop, and unlocks the truck. They climb inside, shaking rain off their sleeves, the radio tuned to the classic rock station he leaves it on, Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin” playing low through the blown speakers. The rain drums so hard on the roof it drowns out most of the noise from the cookoff. She leans over to adjust the AC vent by the steering wheel, and her shoulder presses flat against his chest for three full seconds before she pulls back, and he can feel the steady thud of her heart through her tee shirt.
She looks up at him, eyes bright, no look away, and he kisses her before he can talk himself out of it. It’s slow, no rush, and she tastes like cherry seltzer and peppermint, the same peppermint he smelled earlier. When they pull apart, she huffs a soft laugh, swipes a smudge of rib sauce off his jaw with her thumb. “I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask you out for coffee for three months,” she says. “Was scared you’d tell me to go to hell.”
He laughs, loud, the kind of unguarded laugh he hasn’t let out in years. “Would’ve told you that three months ago,” he says. He shifts the truck into drive, turns on the wipers, and rests his hand on the center console. She sets her hand on top of his, her palm soft from years of wearing latex gloves at work, his calloused from 32 years climbing power poles. He asks her if she wants to go get peach pie at the 24 hour diner off Route 40, the one that serves it warm with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream. She nods.
The wipers slapping steadily against the windshield, he pulls out of the parking lot, and for the first time in four years, he doesn’t feel the urge to rush home to an empty house.
