Rafe Mendez, 62, retired air traffic controller from Madison, had spent the last eight years treating casual joy like a punishable offense. His wife Marnie’s sudden heart attack at 53 had locked him into a routine he never strayed from: coffee black at 6 a.m., three miles walking the lake path at noon, frozen meatloaf for dinner three nights a week, no dates, no flirting, no anything that felt like he was moving on. He’d only shown up to the county firemen’s carnival because his old coworker had begged him, said sitting at home staring at Marnie’s photo albums was going to rot his brain before he hit 65.
He was leaning against a splintered cedar post outside the beer tent, sipping a lukewarm Spotted Cow, when he spotted her. He didn’t recognize her at first, not until she walked right up, the silver streaks in her dark wavy hair catching the string light glow, freckles dusted across her nose, cutoff denim shorts showing off a scar on her left calf he remembered she’d gotten crashing a four-wheeler at Marnie’s family farm when she was 19. “Rafe Mendez, you still look like you haven’t smiled since Reagan was in office,” she said, and her voice was the same, warm, a little rough, like she spent half her time yelling over wind or bees. It was Lena, Marnie’s youngest cousin, the one who’d moved out to Oregon 12 years prior to run a beekeeping supply co-op, the one Marnie used to tease him about whenever she came to visit, saying he got all quiet and dumb around her.
He didn’t have a good comeback for the joke. She was standing so close her shoulder brushed his bicep when she leaned in to grab a napkin off the table next to him, and the scent of clover honey and citronella hit him, sharp and sweet, no fancy perfume, just the smell of someone who spent most of their time outside. He kept telling himself he shouldn’t be noticing that, shouldn’t be staring at the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed at a story about a guy who’d tried to buy a queen bee from her last week thinking it was a novelty pet for his kid. He’d had a quiet, unacknowledged crush on her back when he and Marnie were first married, had never acted on it, never even said a word, but it had always lingered, a tiny secret he’d buried so deep he’d almost forgotten it was there.
They talked for an hour, the hum of the carnival around them, kids screaming on the Tilt-A-Whirl, the greasy smell of fried Oreos drifting over from the food stalls. She said she was only in town for three days, staying at her grandma’s old cabin up by the quarry, leaving Sunday evening. When she sighed and said she’d never gotten to watch the carnival fireworks from the overlook up there, the spot where you could see the whole display without the crowds shoving and yelling, he offered to drive her before he even thought about it. The guilt hit him right after, sharp in his chest, like Marnie was standing right behind him rolling her eyes. But Lena grinned, and said she’d buy the next round of beer if he didn’t make her listen to his old air traffic controller war stories the whole drive up, and he couldn’t bring himself to take the offer back.
The drive up the dirt road to the overlook was bumpy, his old Ford F150 rattling over potholes, Lena singing off key to a Tom Petty song on the radio. She told him Marnie had called her two weeks before she died, had said she was worried Rafe was going to shut himself off from the world if anything happened to her, had made Lena promise to check in on him if she ever came back to Wisconsin. He felt his throat go tight when she said that, had to stare out the window for a minute so she wouldn’t see his eyes get wet. He’d spent eight years thinking moving on was a betrayal, like he was erasing Marnie by feeling anything for anyone else.
They parked right at the edge of the quarry, the carnival spread out 100 feet below them, tiny colorful lights blinking like scattered embers. The first firework went off right as they climbed onto the hood of the truck, bright pink, lighting up the whole valley, and Lena gasped, leaning back against his arm to get a better look. He could feel the heat of her through his flannel shirt, could hear her breathing quicken when a cascade of blue fireworks burst right above them. She turned to look at him at the same time he turned to look at her, their faces only a few inches apart, and neither of them looked away. She reached up to brush a mosquito off his collar, her fingers lingering on the skin of his neck for half a second, and the jolt that went through him was so strong he almost flinched. It was the first time he’d felt that kind of spark, that kind of alive, in eight whole years.
He didn’t say anything, just leaned in, slow, giving her time to pull away if she wanted. She didn’t. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, the salt of her sweat and the faint taste of honey lager on her lips, the boom of the fireworks thudding in time with his heartbeat. The guilt was there, for a split second, but then he remembered Marnie laughing, telling him once that if she ever went first, she wanted him to find someone who made him as happy as she did, not spend the rest of his life alone. It didn’t feel like a betrayal. It felt like what she would have wanted.
They didn’t make any big promises after the fireworks ended, didn’t talk about long distance or moving or anything heavy. She laid her head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her waist, and they watched the last of the crowd filter out of the carnival below, the lights shutting off one by one. She said she’d be back in a month, for the apple harvest up at the orchard Marnie’s family used to own, and he said he’d save her a spot, pick up a jar of her favorite caramel dip from the general store before she got there. When the first cool breeze of the night curled over the quarry edge, he pulled his flannel off his shoulders and draped it over her bare knees, no second thoughts weighing him down.
