Cole Henderson, 58, retired high school shop teacher, had been camped at the back of the fall festival beer tent for an hour, nursing a lukewarm IPA and avoiding the cluster of town council members yelling about the banned book protest booth 100 yards down the path. His work boots still had flecks of pine sawdust stuck in the treads from building the festival’s picnic tables earlier that morning, his faded gray flannel was unbuttoned over a well-worn Nebraska Cornhuskers tee, and he kept picking at a splinter on the edge of the wooden bench under him. The air smelled like fried oreos and burnt charcoal, the crackling PA system blared an off-key cover of *Folsom Prison Blues*, and he’d already turned down three invitations to join the council’s group grumbling about the “out of town liberal” who’d been organizing the book protests for the last two months.
He’d been the loudest voice against her at the last town hall, called her demands to put queer memoirs and contemporary fiction in the high school library “entitled nonsense that didn’t belong in our small town.” He’d spent four years clinging to every unwritten small-town rule he could find after his wife Linda died of breast cancer, convinced that if he kept everything exactly as it had been when she was alive, he wouldn’t have to feel the gaping hole in his chest any more sharply. It was easier to be the gruff, no-nonsense ex-shop teacher than the guy who still slept with her old cardigan tucked under his pillow.
The bench dipped next to him before he saw her approach. Her denim jacket brushed his bicep as she sat, the fabric soft from years of wear, and he caught a whiff of lavender shampoo and campfire smoke when she shifted. He glanced over, recognized the tiny silver nose ring, the frayed “Banned Books Matter” patch sewn to her jacket lapel, and tensed. This was her. Maren. 42, single, had moved to town from Portland six months prior to take care of her ailing dad, and the only person in the county who’d ever had the guts to call him a coward to his face at that town hall.
She ordered a black cherry hard seltzer from the volunteer bartender, then turned to him, one dark eyebrow raised, a half-smirk playing on her mouth. “You’re Cole. The guy who said I was corrupting the local kids last month.” Her voice was lower than he expected, warm, no bite to it. He fumbled for a retort, felt his ears go pink, and took a too-big sip of his IPA. He’d spent weeks imagining yelling at her again if they crossed paths, but now that she was 12 inches away, knee almost touching his, all he could think about was how the late afternoon sun was catching the gold flecks in her hazel eyes.
She laughed, soft, and nodded at the sawdust on his boots. “I saw you helping that 10-year-old fix his BMX chain by the cotton candy stand an hour ago. You fixed it for free, and gave him an extra patch kit for next time. Doesn’t really fit the ‘grumpy old rule follower’ persona you trot out for town meetings.”
He blinked, taken aback. No one had paid that much attention to him in years, not since Linda died. He shifted on the bench, his hand resting 2 inches from hers on the splintered wood, and mumbled that he’d been fixing kids’ bikes for 30 years, old habit. She leaned in a little closer, the shoulder of her jacket pressing against his now, and said she’d heard he used to let the at-risk kids in his shop class build furniture for the local food bank during study hall. He didn’t know how she knew that, didn’t know why she’d bother to ask anyone about him, and he felt the wall he’d built around himself for four years start to crack a little.
A group of teens sprinted past the tent, yelling, and one of them slammed into the back of Maren’s bench. Her seltzer sloshed over the edge of the cup, and she grabbed his forearm to steady herself, her palm warm through the thin flannel of his shirt. He froze, could feel the callus on the side of her thumb from holding open books for hours, and his heart jumped so hard he was surprised she couldn’t feel it through his skin. She apologized, wiping the spilt seltzer off his jeans with a napkin, her hand brushing his thigh for half a second, and he said it was fine, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
He found himself talking before he could stop himself, told her about Linda, how she’d been a librarian at the elementary school for 25 years, how she’d used to sneak him raunchy romance novels when he was recovering from knee surgery 10 years back, teasing him that he needed to loosen up. He told her he’d pushed back on her book requests because he was scared, scared changing anything about the town would make him forget little pieces of Linda, scared if he let go of the rules he’d be adrift. He hadn’t told anyone that, not even his own kid.
The first firework exploded overhead as he finished talking, painting the sky bright magenta, and the crowd around them cheered. She leaned in to yell over the noise, her mouth right next to his ear, her breath warm against his neck, and said “I get it. Grief makes you cling to anything that feels stable, even if it’s stupid.” He turned his head to respond, and their faces were 2 inches apart, the light from the fireworks turning her cheeks pink, and he didn’t overthink it. He kissed her.
She kissed him back immediately, one hand tangling in the short gray hair at the nape of his neck, the other resting on his chest, and he forgot about the town council, forgot about the book ban fight, forgot about every stupid rule he’d been clinging to for four years. No one was looking, everyone’s eyes were fixed on the sky, and for the first time since Linda died, he didn’t feel guilty for feeling happy.
When the last firework faded, they pulled back, both grinning a little, and she wiped a smudge of IPA foam off his chin with her thumb. She said she had a blanket in her truck, parked down by the lake, and she wanted to hear more about Linda’s secret romance novel stash. He nodded, grabbed his jacket off the back of the bench, and stood up next to her. They walked side by side down the dirt path away from the festival, their hands brushing every three or four steps, and he didn’t even glance around to see if anyone he knew was watching.
The faint crunch of fallen maple leaves under their boots mixed with the distant whoop of festival goers, and for the first time in four years, Cole didn’t feel the urge to rush home to an empty house.
