Clay Bennett, 58, retired high-voltage lineman, spends most days covered in motorcycle grease in his Knoxville garage, hasn’t let anyone close enough to borrow a socket set since his wife packed her bags and moved to Florida seven years prior. His biggest flaw, per his only regular friend Ron, is that he’s stubborn enough to turn down a free beer if it comes with a side of small talk. Ron dragged him to the neighborhood summer block party anyway, swearing the homebrewed ale was brewed by a former NFL linebacker and the pulled pork was smoked for 18 hours. Clay had agreed, mostly because his AC was out and the forecast called for 82 degrees with a light breeze.
He’s leaning against a splintered pine picnic table, koozie-wrapped beer sweating through the flannel he still wears even in mid-July, when he spots the vaccine pop-up tent tucked between the bounce house and the bake sale table. He snorts, already mentally drafting the rant he’ll give Ron later about bringing him to an event that’s pushing government overreach. He hasn’t gotten a shot of any kind since his final army tetanus booster in 1987, and he’s not about to start now. That’s when she reaches past him for a root beer in the cooler at his feet, her elbow brushing the hard muscle of his bicep hard enough that he almost drops his beer.
“Sorry about that,” she says, leaning back, and Clay’s throat goes dry. She’s 32 at most, high-waisted denim shorts frayed at the hem, faded Johnny Cash tee clinging to her shoulders, braided brown hair slipping loose from the hair tie at the nape of her neck. She smells like coconut sunscreen and peppermint gum, and when she grins at him, there’s a tiny silver stud in her left nostril. “You look like the guy who’s been avoiding my booth all afternoon. I’m Mia, I run the county health department’s mobile vaccine unit.”
Clay grunts, shifting his weight away from her, already embarrassed by how fast his heart is beating. He’s spent the last seven years mocking guys his age who chase 20-somethings, calling them sad old creeps who can’t handle women their own age with their own opinions. The last thing he wants is to be that guy. “Don’t need no booster,” he says, staring at the scuff on his work boot rather than her face. “Healthy as a horse.”
Mia laughs, a low, warm sound, and leans against the picnic table next to him, close enough that their shoulders are almost touching. “My dad was a lineman just like you. Same stupid ‘I don’t need a doctor’ complex. Died of COVID in 2021, two weeks before he was supposed to retire. That’s why I’m here, not because I want to waste my Saturday arguing with stubborn old men who think a needle is gonna turn them liberal.”
Clay’s head snaps up, and he meets her eyes, hazel flecked with green, and doesn’t look away. He lost three former crew members to COVID in 2021, went to all three funerals alone, still keeps their old hard hats on a shelf in his garage. He doesn’t say anything, just twists the ring on his right hand, the dented lineman’s ring he got when he hit 25 years on the job. Mia points at it, her finger brushing his knuckle for half a second, and he feels a jolt run up his arm.
“Dad had the exact same ring. He lost it in the Tennessee River when he was fixing a line down by the dam in 2012. Cried about it for three weeks.” She sits down on the picnic table bench, patting the spot next to her, and Clay sits before he can talk himself out of it. Her knee brushes his under the table, and she doesn’t move it. He doesn’t either.
They talk for 45 minutes, the noise of the block party fading into background static. She tells him about sneaking up on utility poles with her dad when she was 10, hiding from her mom when they got home covered in transformer grease. He tells her about the 2018 hurricane outages, spending three days sleeping in his truck, fixing lines in pouring rain so a nursing home could get their AC back on. He doesn’t notice when she shifts closer, her thigh pressed fully against his, until she reaches over and runs her index finger along the thick scar running down his left forearm, the one he got from a line fire in 2017. Her finger is soft, with a tiny callus on the tip from holding syringes all day, and he has to fight the urge to shiver.
The entire time, half his brain is screaming at him to leave, that this is wrong, that people are staring, that he’s exactly the sad old creep he’s always mocked. The other half of his brain is so focused on the heat of her leg against his, the sound of her laugh, the way she leans in when he talks like every word he says matters, that he can’t bring himself to stand up. He hasn’t felt this light since before his wife left, since before half his crew died, since before he decided the only safe way to live was alone in his garage with his motorcycles.
“I’m off in 10 minutes,” she says, pulling her hand back from his arm, and Clay’s stomach drops, assuming he’s blown it, that she’s gonna go back to her booth and forget he exists. “Wanna take that Harley you’ve been staring at every time someone drives by on a bike up to the overlook on River Road? My dad used to take me there after work, we’d watch the sunset and eat cheese puffs out of the bag.”
Clay blinks, surprised, and the internal conflict hits so hard he almost says no. “I’m old enough to be your dad,” he says, quiet enough that no one but her can hear it, the shame thick in his voice.
Mia snorts, leaning in so close he can feel her breath on his neck. “I know. That’s part of the appeal. Guys my age still live with three roommates, spend 12 hours a day playing Call of Duty, and can’t change a flat tire. You spend your days fixing vintage motorcycles and climbed utility poles for 32 years. You think I care what the people at the block party are whispering about?”
Clay stares at her for 10 full seconds, then nods, a small, tight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He finishes his beer, tosses the can in the recycling bin next to the cooler, and holds his hand out to help her off the bench. She laces her fingers through his, her hand small and warm in his, and walks with him to where his Harley is parked on the curb. He hands her his extra helmet, the black one with the faded lineman logo on the side, and she slips it on, grinning up at him when he buckles the strap for her.
He climbs on the bike, waits for her to sit behind him, and when she wraps her arms tight around his waist, her chest pressed against his back, he feels the tension he’s been carrying for seven years loosen just a little. He pulls out of the neighborhood, the rumble of the engine drowning out the noise of the block party, the warm summer wind blowing through what’s left of his hair. They reach the overlook 10 minutes later, the sun dipping low over the river, painting the sky pink and orange and deep purple. He kills the engine, and she doesn’t let go of his waist when they stop.
He leans back against the bike, wraps his arm around her shoulders, and pulls her closer, her head resting on his chest. A breeze blows off the river, carrying the smell of pine and lake water, and she tilts her face up to kiss him, soft at first, then harder, her hand fisting in the front of his flannel. He kisses her back, slow, like he’s got all the time in the world, and for the first time in seven years, he doesn’t feel guilty for wanting something good. He pulls back after a minute, brushes a stray strand of hair off her face, and reaches into the pocket of his jeans for the crumpled bag of cheese puffs he stuffed there that morning, forgot he even had. He pours a handful of the puffs into her outstretched palm, the bright orange powder sticking to the calluses on both their hands.
