Ray Voss, 58, retired county lineman, has manned the brisket habanero chili booth at the Asheville VFW fall cookoff for 12 straight years. He’s got a scar snaking up his left forearm from a 2019 ice storm repair, a habit of chewing peppermint gum when he’s nervous, and a rule he’s stuck to since his ex-wife left him for a real estate agent seven years prior: no dating, no small talk that leads to dating, no looking at women long enough to wonder if they’d want to date him. The VFW hall smells like cumin, burnt hot dogs, and cheap draft beer, a bluegrass band tuning up by the stage, kids screaming as they chase each other between booths, a stack of paper sample cups next to his ladle. He’s just handed a heaping bowl to his old line crew partner when he catches the sharp, sweet scent of lavender over the chili fumes.
Clara Bennett, 56, the town library’s head librarian, leans in over the booth edge, a silver streak cutting through the dark brown hair pulled back in a loose braid, ink smudge on her left wrist from stamping book holds that morning. She’s the one who’d spent three months fighting the county’s proposed book ban last spring, showing up to every town hall, passing around petitions, getting screamed at by half the local church groups for “grooming kids.” Ray signed her petition outside the grocery store back in April, never talked to her before that, just nodded when they passed each other in the cereal aisle. Her flannel sleeve brushes the back of his hand when she reaches for a sample cup, calloused tip of her index finger brushing his knuckle for half a second longer than necessary, and his chest tightens like he’s grabbed a live wire.
She takes a sip of the chili, coughs a little, eyes watering, and laughs, a low, warm sound that cuts through the hall noise. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve tasted all year,” she says, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. He grunts, grabs a can of lager from the cooler under the booth, slides it across to her. She pops the tab, takes a long drink, and says she recognized his name on the petition, most guys his age in town were the ones screaming at her during the town halls. “I don’t care what people read,” he says, wiping chili splatter off his faded Carhartt flannel. “Raised a daughter who read every damn ‘banned’ YA book they sell, now she’s a nurse in Charlotte saving lives. People who ban books are just scared of what they don’t know.”
She leans against the booth edge, shoulder six inches from his, doesn’t look away when he meets her eye, and he feels his face heat up, angry at himself for acting like a flustered 16-year-old at his first high school dance. He’s spent seven years telling himself he’s too rough around the edges, too set in his ways, too broken from his ex leaving to bother with anyone new, and the voice in his head is screaming that she’s too smart, too put-together, too busy saving libraries to waste time on a guy who spends most weekends fixing fences and hunting deer. But he doesn’t step back. She mentions she just cataloged a full set of first-edition Louis L’Amour westerns, the same ones his mom kept stacked on their living room shelf when he was a kid, and he admits he hasn’t set foot in the library since he was 17. “Come by tomorrow around 10,” she says, tapping the side of her beer can. “I’ll set them aside for you. No late fees, even if you keep them for six months.”
The band starts playing a slow Johnny Cash cover, couples drifting onto the small dance floor in the middle of the hall, and she nods toward it, one eyebrow raised. “You dance?” He snorts, says he hasn’t danced since his daughter’s wedding four years ago, stepped on his mother-in-law’s foot three times. She holds out her hand, palm up, fingers slightly curled, and says she’s got steel-toe boots on, he can’t hurt her if he steps wrong. He hesitates for three full beats, then wipes his hand on his jeans, takes hers. Her palm is soft, that small callus on her index finger from turning thousands of book pages pressing into his skin, and he pulls her close enough that her hip brushes his, not close enough to make her uncomfortable.
“You know,” she says, resting her other hand on his shoulder, breath fanning against his neck, “I saw you fixing Mrs. Henderson’s porch back in May. Spent three hours out there in the rain, wouldn’t take any money for it. Most guys around here would demand a whole case of beer for that much work.” He feels his face get hotter, stares at a spot over her shoulder for a second before he meets her eye again. “She’s 82, can’t lift a hammer. Doesn’t have anyone else to help.” She smiles, small and soft, and says that’s when she decided she was going to talk to him the first chance she got.
They dance through the whole Johnny Cash song, then a slower Patsy Cline one, then one more fast bluegrass number that has her laughing when he steps on her toe twice, just like he said he would. When the band takes a break, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, says she doesn’t have any plans for dinner, knows the little diner on the edge of town that serves apple pie with a scoop of cinnamon ice cream, the same one his mom used to take him to after his high school football games. He grabs his jacket off the back of the booth, locks the cooler under his table, tells his old crew partner he’ll see him at the deer camp next weekend. He holds the VFW hall door open for her, cool October air hitting his face, red and gold oak leaves crunching under their work boots as they walk toward his beat-up 2018 Ford F-150. She links her arm through his, warm through the fabric of his flannel, and points out a constellation he hasn’t looked at since he was a kid camping with his dad.
