The bar was packed that night, the annual wildflower festival drawing out-of-towners and locals alike, so when he saw Lila hovering by the row of stools, squinting for an open spot, he almost pretended he didn’t see her. She was the 41-year-old high school art teacher his next door neighbor, Earl, a retired lineman 15 years her senior, had been bragging about for three months straight, dragging her to potlucks, posting blurry photos of her holding bluebonnet bouquets to his Facebook wall, yelling at the hardware store crew last week that she was “the best damn thing that ever happened to this hick town.” Rafe had exchanged three words with her total, all of them “howdy” when they crossed paths at the mailbox, and he’d made a point to keep his distance, knowing Earl was the type to hold a grudge over a stolen lawnmower, let alone a girlfriend. But the only empty stool in the whole place was the one to his left, so when she walked over, her sunflower-print linen sundress swishing around her calves, bare shoulders dusted with freckles, and asked if the seat was taken, he nodded and gestured to it before he could overthink it.
She slid onto the stool, her elbow brushing his bicep as she set her frozen margarita down on the sticky Formica counter, and he caught a whiff of jasmine hand lotion and fried dill pickle brine, the latter from the crumpled paper basket of snacks she was clutching. Their knees knocked under the counter a minute later, when she shifted to get a better look at the band, and she laughed, a low, warm sound, and apologized, her knee staying pressed to his for two full beats before she pulled back. She kept glancing at the tattoo on his forearm, the line art of a 1962 Airstream he’d gotten the day he finished restoring his first trailer, and finally she leaned in, her voice raised over the screaming guitar riff, to ask about it. He told her about his shop, the half-finished Airstream he had in the bay behind his house, the couple from Chicago that was paying him double to have it ready for their cross-country road trip in June, and she listened, leaning in so close her hair brushed his shoulder when she nodded, her full attention fixed on him like he was saying something far more interesting than he actually was. She told him Earl had forgotten they had plans to walk the festival grounds that night, bailed last minute to play poker with his hunting buddies, and she’d wandered to the ice house alone rather than go back to the rental house she was staying in.
The entire time they talked, the conflict hummed low in Rafe’s chest, half disgust at himself for even entertaining the idea of being into the woman his neighbor was practically ready to propose to, half hot, unignorable desire that made his hands feel tingly when she passed him a napkin to wipe a spot of beer off his chin, her fingers brushing his jaw for half a second. He knew what the town would say if they saw them together, knew Earl would probably come over to his shop with a shotgun and a mouthful of curses, knew he’d spent eight years building a quiet, drama-free life he was supposed to be happy with, but none of that felt important when she laughed at his dumb joke about the time a customer tried to pay him with a flock of backyard chickens, her hand resting on his arm for three whole seconds as she cackled.
When the band finished their set and the bar started clearing out, she turned to him, her dark eyes glinting under the string lights strung across the ceiling, and asked if he wanted to walk down to the creek behind the ice house, watch the fireflies come out. Rafe hesitated for half a second, his mind flashing to Earl leaning over his fence that morning, rambling about how he was gonna buy Lila a pottery wheel for her birthday, but then he nodded, stood up, and held out his hand to help her off the stool. Her palm was calloused, from throwing pottery, she explained, when their fingers laced together, and she squeezed his hand for a beat too long before letting go, her cheeks pink when she turned to lead the way down the dirt path.
The air off the creek smelled like cedar and wild honeysuckle, crickets chirping loud enough to drown out the last of the bar noise, and she stopped halfway to the bank, turning to face him, her dress blowing soft against his calves in the light breeze. She told him she’d been watching him work in his shop for months, when she walked her golden retriever past his house every morning, that he was the only person in town who didn’t treat her like a pretty accessory Earl had picked up at a flea market. Rafe didn’t say anything, just leaned down, and kissed her, her lips tasting like lime and tequila, her hands coming up to tangle in the graying hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
They pulled apart a minute later, when they heard a dog barking, and looked over to see Earl’s old hound dog trotting towards them, tail wagging, no sign of Earl anywhere behind him. She laughed, tucking a strand of wind-tousled hair behind her ear, and said she’d break up with Earl tomorrow, no drama, no messy fights, if he wanted to see her again. Rafe nodded, lacing their fingers back together, and kept walking towards the creek, the fireflies flickering bright gold just above the surface of the water.
