Hank Collier is 58, retired lineman, 32 years climbing power poles across eastern Ohio, now rebuilds vintage lawn tractors out of his two-car garage. Six years out from a messy divorce where his ex-wife left him for a 32-year-old realtor, he keeps to himself, avoids small town gossip circles like downed power lines, writes off anyone under 50 as flighty, unreliable, not worth the effort.
It’s 9 PM on Fourth of July, the VFW tent half empty after the main fireworks show, air thick with charcoal smoke, citronella, and sour spilled beer. Hank perches on a dented folding chair, a cold Pabst sweating in his hand, rough calluses on his palm catching on the can’s ridged aluminum edge. He’s half debating leaving when the chair next to him scrapes gravel, and someone sits down so close their upper arm is three inches from his.
He glances over. Clara Bennett, 42, runs the town food bank, her mom’s his ex-wife’s oldest friend, the woman who calls Janice every Sunday to dish on every minor scandal within 10 square miles. He’s only spoken to her a handful of times, mostly when she drops off surplus canned goods for his annual lineman reunion cookout. She wears cutoff jeans, a faded 2019 Luke Combs tour tee, flip flops caked in festival mud, a frayed red bandana holding half her curly brown hair off her neck, strands stuck to her damp skin from the 85-degree heat. She holds a cherry seltzer in one hand, and he smells coconut sunscreen and mint gum when she turns to him, grinning. “Thought I was the only one who didn’t want to go home to an empty house tonight,” she says.
He almost makes an excuse to leave, the familiar prickle of caution creeping up his spine—if anyone sees them sitting this close, Janice will blow the story so far out of proportion by next week half the town will think he moved a college student into his guest room. But then she nods toward his driveway three blocks over, says she saw the 1972 John Deere 110 he’d been restoring on his front lawn earlier that week, her dad had the exact same model, she learned to drive on it at 10, crashed it into a rose bush her mom tended for 15 years.
He laughs, and they fall into easy conversation, no forced small talk, no awkward pauses, no questions about why he’s still single six years later. She tells him she just dumped her long-term boyfriend, a high school math teacher who cheated on her with a student’s parent, says she’s sick of guys her age who lie through their teeth and think taking the trash out counts as a personality trait. When he tells the story of climbing a pole in a blizzard and getting zapped so bad his boot melted to the metal rung, she laughs so hard she snorts, her hand landing light on his knee for two full seconds before she pulls it back, cheeks pink. The heat from her palm lingers, seeps through his worn denim jeans, settles low in his gut.
He’s so wrapped up in talking he doesn’t notice the bartender stacking chairs until the guy yells they’re closing in 10 minutes. Clara stands, brushes grass off her jeans, tilts her head toward the river half a block away. “The volunteer crew’s setting off leftover fireworks off the dock. Wanna come watch? No one goes down there this late, won’t run into anyone we know.”
He hesitates for half a second, the voice in his head screaming this is a terrible idea, that Linda will find out, that Janice will make his life hell for months. But then he looks at her, the way string lights strung across the tent catch the gold flecks in her eyes, the way she twists the bandana around her wrist like she’s nervous he’ll say no, and he nods.
They walk slow down the dirt path to the river, their hands brushing every few steps, neither pulling away. When they reach the bank, they sit on a weathered fallen oak log half buried in grass, cool damp seeping through the seat of his jeans. The first leftover firework goes off, a burst of gold that paints the river bright, and he realizes she’s not looking at the sky. She’s looking at him.
She leans in slow, gives him time to pull away if he wants, and kisses him. He tastes cherry seltzer and mint on her lips, feels her hand on the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the short gray hair at his nape. For the first time in six years, he doesn’t overthink it, doesn’t worry about gossip, doesn’t wonder if she’ll leave like everyone else. He kisses her back, one hand settling light on her waist, the other resting on the log next to her thigh.
When they pull back, she’s smiling, cheeks flushed, the distant boom of another firework rattling in their chests. “I’ve wanted to do that since you helped me drag that 50-pound dead oak branch out of my yard two months ago,” she says. “Was too scared you’d think I was being stupid, or that my mom would throw a fit.”
He laughs, brushes a stray curl off her forehead. “I was too busy worrying about what your mom would say to even admit I thought about it too.”
She snorts, laces her fingers through his, his calloused, scarred knuckles fitting against her softer, smaller ones easy, like they were made to. “My mom can mind her own damn business. I’m 42 years old, I can kiss whoever I want.”
He leans back against the log, still holding her hand, and watches the next burst of red and blue fireworks light up the dark sky above the river.
