Dale Riggs, 58, retired power lineman from outside Toledo, has held the same grudge for three years. Widowed seven years back, he’d filled the empty evenings after work volunteering at the local high school’s trade program, teaching kids to splice wire and rebuild small engines, until the school board gutted the whole department. He’d yelled so loud at that final public meeting his throat was raw for three days, and ever since, he’d avoided Clara Bennett, the board president he’d blamed for the cut, like she carried a live 12kV line. He only agreed to come to the town’s annual harvest festival because his buddy begged him to man the cornhole booth, and the promise of free craft IPA was too good to pass up. The air smelled like fried oreos, cut alfalfa, and diesel fumes from the tractor pull out by the fairgrounds entrance, and he’d already snuck three wings from the food booth next to his when he spotted her across the field, handing out flyers by the beer tent. He’d ducked behind a stack of hay bales, but luck wasn’t on his side.
The sky opened up without warning, a sharp mid-September downpour that sent everyone scrambling for cover. Dale darted for the closest awning, half his beer sloshing over the edge of the can, and slammed straight into a warm, solid body. He spilled the rest of the IPA down the front of a well-worn plaid flannel, and when he looked up, Clara Bennett was laughing, wiping beer off her jeans with the back of her hand. “Nice to see you’re still as subtle as a sledgehammer, Riggs,” she said, and he froze, the snarky retort he’d been practicing for years dying on his tongue. They were pressed shoulder to shoulder under the tiny awning, rain drumming so hard on the metal roof it drowned out the country band playing by the main stage, and every time she shifted to make room for another soggy festival goer, her rain-soaked arm brushed his. He could feel the heat of her skin through his own worn work shirt, and he caught sight of a thin, silvery scar snaking up her left wrist, the exact shape of a welding burn from a stray arc. He stared longer than he should have, and when she caught him, she held his gaze for three full seconds, one eyebrow raised, a half-smirk playing on her lips. He looked away fast, face hot, a flutter in his chest he hadn’t felt since he was 17 and fumbled his first date with his late wife Karen.
He was gruff at first, short answers, eye contact fixed on the mud puddle forming at his boots, but she wouldn’t let him shut down. She teased him about that board meeting rant, said she still had the video saved on her old phone, that his line about “bureaucrats who wouldn’t know a wire stripper from a hole in the wall” was her go-to icebreaker at state school board conferences. He bristled, said he meant every word, and she pulled a crumpled, rain-spotted flyer out of her back pocket and handed it to him. It was for the new trade program, launching next semester: welding, auto repair, electrical work, all the classes he’d taught. His name was printed halfway down the page under “provisional volunteer instructors.” He blinked, confused, and she explained the previous board had cut the program two weeks before she took office, that she’d spent two years fighting the state for funding, that she’d tracked down his old foreman to ask who the best volunteer was, and he’d said Dale, no questions asked. She’d stopped by his shop four times, left three voice mails, but he’d never answered, too busy ranting to his buddies at The Rusty Rivet about the “job-killing bureaucrat” running the school board. He felt his ears burn, the weight of three years of misplaced anger settling heavy in his gut, warring with the sharp, unexpected pull of attraction he’d been trying to ignore since he spilled beer on her.
A kid darted past, slipping on the wet grass, and grabbed Clara’s shoulder to steady himself. She lurched forward, grabbing Dale’s bicep to keep from falling, and her hand was cold from the beer can she’d been holding, calloused at the fingertips, same as his from years of working with her hands. The jolt of that contact shot straight down his spine, and she didn’t let go right away, looking up at him, rain drops caught in the gray streaks of her bangs, smelling like cinnamon gum and rain and the faint, sharp tang of welding flux. He didn’t move, didn’t pull away, all the old anger melting so fast he almost forgot how to speak.
The rain slowed to a drizzle a minute later, the sun breaking through the clouds to paint the cornfields at the edge of the fairground pink and orange. She pulled her hand away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and said she’d understand if he still wanted nothing to do with her, but she’d love it if he’d either come to the first planning meeting next week, or meet her for a beer at The Rusty Rivet the next night to go over the curriculum. He stared at her for a second, then nodded, saying he had a stack of 1980s auto repair and wiring manuals he’d been hoarding for years, perfect for the kids. She grinned, the kind of grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes, and scribbled her cell number on the back of the flyer before handing it back to him. She gave his arm a quick squeeze before turning to help her crew fold up the booth, her work boots squelching in the mud as she walked away.
Dale tucked the flyer in the inside pocket of his flannel, pulling out his phone to text his buddy he couldn’t finish manning the cornhole booth, then opened the group chat with his old lineman crew, the one where they’d spent three years making jokes about Clara, and closed it without typing a word. He tapped her name into his contacts, thumb hovering over the send button for half a second before he fired off a text that says I’ll bring the old transmission rebuild manuals you asked about.
