Ray Hackett, 58, retired power line technician, has spent the three years since his wife’s death adhering strictly to the unspoken rules of his small Ohio hometown: no making waves, no showing up to events alone unless they’re funerals or fish fries, no talking to anyone the local Facebook groups have deemed “trouble.” His biggest flaw, even he’ll admit if he’s had three beers, is that he cares far more about what his neighbors think than he lets on, even after 35 years of climbing 80-foot poles in ice storms to keep their lights on, even after he buried the only person whose opinion ever actually mattered. He’d only showed up to the fire department chili cook-off because his old crew partner’s 16-year-old son was competing, and he’d promised he’d taste the kid’s extra-spicy, cumin-heavy recipe.
He’s leaning against the bed of his beat-up 2007 F-150, wiping chili grease off the frayed power company patch on his work jacket, when she bumps into him. She’s stepping back to dodge a sugar-fueled 7-year-old waving a melting cherry popsicle, and her elbow knocks the paper bowl in his hand just enough that a dollop of bean-heavy chili splatters onto the knee of his faded jeans. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” she says, grabbing a crumpled napkin from her coat pocket and leaning in to dab at the stain before he can protest. Her shoulder presses against his chest for half a second, and he catches the scent of her perfume: vanilla cut with pine, like the Christmas wreaths his wife used to hang on their front porch every December. He recognizes her immediately: Clara Bennett, 54, the town librarian who’d testified against the school board’s romance novel ban two weeks prior, calling the all-male board “overgrown hall monitors with zero reading comprehension” on local access TV. The town’s more conservative crowd had been calling for her firing ever since, boycotting the library’s bake sales and leaving one-star reviews complaining she was “corrupting the youth.”
He snorts, and tells her he’s got a first edition of that book, his wife got it for him for their 10th anniversary, they’d watched the movie every Valentine’s Day until she got too sick to sit through it. Her face softens, and she asks if he wants to walk down the river trail for a minute, get away from the noise and the staring. He hesitates, glancing again at the gossiping church ladies, at the group of his old crew buddies who are definitely gonna give him unending hell if they see him leaving with the “controversial librarian.” For 58 years he’s done what he’s supposed to, kept his head down, avoided drama, spent three years alone in a too-big house because he didn’t want anyone to say he was moving on too fast. The thrill of breaking that stupid unspoken rule hums under his skin, sharp and warm, and for the first time in years he doesn’t care what anyone thinks. He says yes.
The trail is lit by faint string lights strung between gnarled oak trees, the ground crunching under their work boots as they walk, the noise of the cook-off fading behind them. The air smells like wood smoke and fallen apples, and the cold nips at the tip of his nose and the tips of his ears. They stop at a weathered wooden bench overlooking the shallow, rushing river, and sit, their thighs pressed together through their thick denim jeans, neither of them making a move to shift away. She tells him she moved to town six months ago after her 25-year marriage ended, that she didn’t expect to be the town pariah so fast, that she’s tired of everyone treating her like she’s a criminal for letting kids read books that have real, messy people in them. He tells her about the time he got written up 12 years ago for letting a female trainee work the high line, that everyone said it was too dangerous, that she was the best worker he’d ever had, that he told the higher-ups to go to hell when they tried to transfer her to the front office. She laughs, a low, warm sound, and reaches over, lacing her fingers through his, her hand soft but with a faint callus on her index finger from turning thousands of book pages over her career. He doesn’t pull away.
He asks her if she wants to come back to his place, says he’s got a bottle of 12-year bourbon he’s been saving for no good reason, and he’d love to show her that first edition, still wrapped in the dust jacket his wife embroidered tiny roses onto 28 years prior. She smiles, and squeezes his hand, and says yes. They stand up, and he doesn’t let go of her hand as they walk back towards the parking lot, past the staring church ladies, past his hooting old crew buddies, past all the stupid small town rules he’s spent his whole life following. The rough fabric of her wool glove fits perfectly in the palm of his work-worn hand.
