That’s when he sees her. Maren Hale, 52, the town librarian who’d been the face of the drag story hour fight at the last three town hall meetings. He’d sat in the back of one of those meetings, signed the petition his buddy from the feed store handed him without reading it, figured it was just the usual small town grandstanding, didn’t think twice until he watched a group of red-faced men yell at her for 45 minutes straight while she sat there, calm as anything, answering every question without raising her voice. She’s leaning against the same cooler pole he is, silver streaks threading through her dark braid, cut-off jean shorts showing a thin scar on her left calf from a 2021 hiking fall, work boots caked in library dust, a vintage 1993 Suzy Bogguss tee stretched tight across her shoulders. She reaches for the stack of napkins sitting on the cooler edge at the exact same time he does, their knuckles brushing, warm, calloused, she doesn’t yank her hand away, just holds eye contact for a beat longer than polite, the corner of her mouth ticking up in a half-smile.
He freezes for half a second, half tempted to mumble an excuse and walk away. He’s never been the kind of guy to hit on a woman who probably assumes he’s on the side of the people who called her a groomer for three weeks straight, the shame of signing that stupid petition nagging at him, sharp and hot. But she beats him to talking, says she’s been dying for a real beer all night, been drinking seltzer to keep her wits about her for the school board meeting earlier that day, asks if the IPAs in his cooler are as cold as they look. He nods, grabs one, pops the tab, hands it to her, their fingers brushing again when she takes it, her skin softer than he expected, the cold of the aluminum can seeping through to his palm. They talk about the Suzy Bogguss tee first, he saw her open for Garth Brooks in 1996 in Portland, she was there too, third row, snuck a flask of bourbon in her purse, spilled it on the guy in the suit sitting in front of her, they laugh about how overpriced the stadium beer was, how the opening act was better than the headliner that night.
The conversation shifts slow, no pressure, she complains about the group of parents who showed up at the library that morning to picket, says half of them have checked out raunchy romance novels from the adult section a dozen times, the hypocrisy makes her snort into her beer. He feels the knot in his stomach tighten, knows he can’t leave it unsaid, so he tells her he signed the petition, didn’t read a single line of it, just listened to his buddy who said it was too much for 5-year-olds, says he showed up to the town hall to support his friend, left feeling like an idiot when he heard her speak, says he called the county clerk last week to take his name off the list, forgot to tell anyone. She pauses, takes a slow sip of beer, doesn’t yell, doesn’t call him an idiot, just smirks, says most guys around here would lie about that, double down, start yelling about free speech to save face. She leans in a little then, her shoulder brushing his sun-warmed bicep, he can smell coconut shampoo and cut grass on her, the noise of the fair fading to a low hum for a second, her eyes are hazel, flecked with green, crinkled at the corners when she smiles.
He’s never been the kind of guy to make a move fast, not since his wife left, not since he decided vulnerability was just another way to get burned, but something about the way she’s looking at him makes him throw the rulebook out. He asks her if she wants to get out of there, head up to his cabin 15 minutes outside town, he’s got Suzy Bogguss’ first album on vinyl, a back porch with a clear view of the Cascades, no picketers, no annoying well-meaning sisters trying to set him up, no screaming kids on the ferris wheel. She nods fast, finishes the last of her beer, tosses the can in the recycling bin next to the cooler, says she’s been waiting for someone to ask her that all night. He grabs his keys off his belt loop, nods toward the dirt parking lot, she tucks her hand into the crook of his arm, her palm warm through the thin cotton of his tee, and he doesn’t even bother waving at his sister when she yells a teasing comment after them as they walk away.
