Cole Henderson, 58, retired Forest Service hotshot crew superintendent, was three sips into a hazy IPA at the Lions Club beer garden when her shoulder brushed his. He’d avoided the county fair for three years running, but his sister had begged him to show face for the annual fundraiser for the local fire department, and he’d caved, figuring he could hide in the back corner of the beer tent and watch the lawn mower pull races without anyone trying to set him up with their widowed cousin or divorced dental hygienist friend. He’d spent seven years shutting those offers down, ever since his wife Karen died of ovarian cancer, and the habit was so ingrained he barely had to think about the polite, firm “no thanks” before it left his mouth.
He recognized Marnie immediately, even out of the scrubs he’d seen her in twice in the last month, once when she dropped off free N95s at the senior center while he was helping an old crew buddy replace a wheelchair ramp, once when she was standing on the side of the road holding a sign for a free blood pressure clinic. She was Karen’s second cousin, 54, moved to the county six months prior after ditching her retired husband’s plan to move to a Florida golf community, and everyone in town knew she was “sort of family” enough that no one would ever consider pairing them off. That’s the first reason he didn’t move when she leaned against his picnic table to grab a handful of napkins from the stack next to his elbow, her forearm brushing his, the lavender and lemon Pledge scent of her lotion cutting through the beer and fried dough and diesel fumes hanging over the tent.
She said she’d been meaning to thank him for helping the elderly couple on Oak Street clear the brush from their property last month, that she’d stopped by to check on their COPD symptoms and they wouldn’t stop talking about the “quiet guy with the scar across his left eyebrow” who’d spent three Saturday afternoons hauling pine branches for free. He grunted a response, surprised anyone had noticed, and slid an extra chair over to his table when she hesitated, half out of politeness, half because he didn’t want her walking away just yet. He told himself it was harmless, that they were just two people who’d known each other in passing, catching up. Then her knee knocked his under the table when she laughed at his story about accidentally setting his own boot on fire during a 2018 prescribed burn, and he felt a jolt run up his spine that he hadn’t felt since he was 22 and Karen had kissed him for the first time in the back of his beat-up Camaro.
For ten minutes he fought it, mentally berating himself for being a creep, for looking at the way her sun-bleached blonde hair fell over her shoulder, for noticing the tiny hole in the hem of her faded Pearl Jam tee, for wanting to reach across the table and brush the crumb of fried dough off her lip. It felt wrong, like he was betraying Karen, like the whole town was watching even though most of the crowd was turned toward the race track, cheering as a souped-up riding mower dragged a 500-pound weight across the dirt. Then Marnie said she still remembered the 2012 family reunion, when Karen had dragged her out to the lake at 2 a.m. to watch the meteor shower with Cole, how the two of them had spent the whole time making fun of the rest of the family for bringing jello salad with marshmallows, and his chest loosened. Karen had always liked Marnie, always said she was the only other person in the family who had a sense of humor that didn’t revolve around church potluck jokes.
The races ended as the sun dipped low, painting the sky pink and orange, and Marnie asked if he wanted to drive up to the ridge overlook, get away from the noise and the crowd. He hesitated for half a second, thinking about the gossip, about how the ladies at the grocery store would whisper if they saw his truck parked outside her cottage, about how stupid he was for even considering it. Then she smiled, the corners of her hazel eyes crinkling, and he nodded.
His old F150 rattled up the dirt road, Marnie rolling the window down to let the pine-scented air blow through the cab, pointing out the patches of fireweed growing along the shoulder that she’d been collecting to make salve for her aunt’s arthritis. When they pulled up to the overlook, the whole valley spread out below them, the fair lights twinkling like scattered stars, the distant sound of the fair’s cover band playing a 90s country song drifting up the hill. She stepped close to him, her shoulder pressing into his bicep, not hard, just enough that he could feel the warmth of her through his worn flannel shirt. He didn’t pull away.
They stood there for 45 minutes, talking about nothing and everything, her hand brushing his once when she pointed out a hawk circling overhead, his hand lingering when he passed her the extra hoodie he kept behind the seat of the truck when she said she was cold. When he drove her back to her small cottage on the edge of town, she invited him in for a glass of iced tea, and he didn’t say no. When she leaned in to kiss him on the porch, slow, soft, her hand resting lightly on his chest, he kissed her back, no hesitation, no guilt, no noise in his head telling him he was doing something wrong. He agreed to meet her for breakfast at the diner downtown the next morning, no plans to hide, no plans to make a big deal out of it either. He pulled out of her driveway as she waved from the porch, the radio playing a Tom Petty song he and Karen used to sing on road trips, and smiled for the first time in years that didn’t feel like a performance.
