Clay Bennett, 58, retired electric lineman with a scar slicing through his left eyebrow and a habit of avoiding any conversation that veers into feelings, has spent the last seven years sticking to a strict, uncomplicated routine: feed the two barn cats on his porch, drink three cups of black coffee before 8 a.m., fix his neighbor’s fence or lawnmower when asked, and avoid the town’s crowded community events like they’re contagious. He only showed up to the annual Maplewood Summer Fair because his 16-year-old granddaughter begged him to enter his smoked brisket in the contest, and even after he took second place, he’d planned to slip out before his old crew badgered him into cheap beer and tired lies about their younger days.
He’s halfway to the parking lot, corn dog in one hand and crumpled second-place ribbon in the other, when he spots her. Mara Carter, 52, ex-wife of his old line partner Jim, who left town last year with a 28-year-old yoga instructor he met on a fishing trip, is rearranging a stack of used books at a craft booth near the edge of the grounds. Golden hour sun gilds the silver streaks in her dark hair, and she swipes a bead of sweat off her upper lip with the back of her hand, silver hoop earrings catching the light as she moves. He stops walking before he realizes it, and when she looks up and catches him staring, she doesn’t look away. She smirks, nods at the corn dog in his hand, and he finds himself walking toward her before he can talk himself out of it.
The air smells like fried Oreos and cut grass, the tinny twang of a cover band playing 90s country drifting over from the main stage. They make small talk at first, stiff, careful: he asks how her new used bookstore is doing, she says it’s slow but steady, the town’s retirees are finally stopping in instead of writing her off as the weird outsider who divorced their favorite high school football star. She reaches behind her for a tattered first edition of the fly fishing guide he used to lend Jim back when they camped on weekends, and when she hands it to him, their fingers brush. His palms are calloused from 35 years of climbing utility poles, hers soft from years of turning book pages, and the contact zips up his arm like a low-voltage shock. Neither pulls away for a beat longer than necessary.
The conflict hits him square in the chest a second later. Jim was his ride to work for 12 years, best man at his wife’s funeral, and small town rules say you don’t mess around with your old buddy’s ex-wife, no matter how badly he fucked up. But he also remembers driving Jim home from the bar at 2 a.m. more times than he can count, listening to him brag about the waitresses he was hooking up with while Mara was home with their asthmatic youngest kid. He remembers bringing her groceries when Jim was off on a “fishing trip” for two weeks and her car broke down, remembers her bringing him soup when his wife was going through chemo. He’s spent the last year avoiding her bookstore, parking across the street and watching the lights on inside before driving away, too stubborn to admit he wanted to go in, too scared of the gossip that would spread if anyone saw him.
He hesitates for three full seconds, half-expecting to see one of his old buddies peeking out from the beer tent, already texting the town gossip group chat. Then he nods, drops his half-eaten corn dog in a nearby trash can, and follows her. Gravel crunches under their work boots, fireflies flickering in the tall grass at the edge of the path. She stumbles over an exposed tree root, and he reaches out to catch her arm, his hand wrapping around her bicep, warm and solid. He doesn’t let go right away, and she doesn’t pull away. She looks up at him, eyes dark in the dimming light, and says she’s noticed him parking across the street from the bookstore the last few weeks, too stubborn to come in. He admits he was scared people would talk. She laughs, a low, warm sound, and says let them. We’re both too old to care what a bunch of bored retirees think, anyway.
They sit on a fallen oak log at the edge of the creek, water gurgling soft over smooth stones, crickets chirping in the trees around them. She leans her shoulder against his, the weight of it warm through his shirt, and he doesn’t move away. He hands her the fly fishing book back, says he doesn’t need to keep it, he’d rather come by the store next week to borrow it, maybe grab coffee at the diner down the street after. She smiles, taps the back of her hand lightly against his knee, and says she’ll make sure the peach seltzer is cold, too. Somewhere behind them, a kid sets off a firecracker that bursts pink against the darkening sky, and Clay doesn’t even flinch.
