Ray Voss, 58, retired lineman from a half-hour outside Columbus, had avoided the town’s annual summer street fair for 12 years straight. The grudge he held over the 2011 bass tournament cheating scandal felt too heavy to drag through the funnel cake stands and carnival rides, even if most folks had forgotten the whole thing the second the trophy was handed out. He’d only agreed to man the VFW pulled pork booth that weekend because his old work buddy Jim had begged, said they were short three volunteers and the money went to vet food banks. Ray’s only flaw, if you asked anyone who knew him, was that he’d rather chew glass than admit he cared about anything softer than a transmission or a properly tied fishing knot, especially after his wife Linda passed from breast cancer four years prior. He’d spent every day since fixing up his 1978 F-150, drinking cheap beer on his porch, and turning down every blind date his sister tried to set him up on, convinced romance was for people who hadn’t already had their one good shot.
The July sun was beating down hard enough to make the asphalt shimmer by 6 p.m. Ray was sweating through his navy VFW polo, wiping pork grease off his calloused hands on the thigh of his worn work jeans, when he looked up and saw her leaning against the edge of the booth. Clara Bennett, 54, ex-wife of the man who’d cheated him out of that 2011 tournament prize, the woman he’d written off as part of the whole lying mess for a decade. She had silver streaks weaving through her dark auburn hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail, wearing cut-off denim shorts and a faded Johnny Cash tee, scuffed white Converse caked in dust from the fair grounds. She was holding a lemon shake-up, ice clinking loud enough to cut through the hum of the crowd, and she’d clearly been watching him for a while before he noticed.
“Ray Voss. Thought that was you,” she said, pushing off the booth edge to step a little closer. He could smell coconut sunscreen and faint vanilla lip gloss, nothing like the heavy rose perfume Linda used to wear to family gatherings. His jaw tightened automatically, old anger flaring, and he almost told her to get lost before she held up a hand to stop him. “Save the gruff act. I owe you an apology. Todd hid that five-pound bass in his livewell under the cooler, I found it when we got home that night. Fought about it for three days straight, divorced his cheating ass two years later.”
Ray blinked, the grudge he’d carried so tight for so long slipping a little in his grip. He reached for a stack of napkins on the counter, his wrist brushing hers by accident, and she didn’t pull away. She held his eye contact, the corner of her mouth ticked up in a half-smile like she knew exactly how off balance he was. “Why didn’t you say something then?” he said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.
“You stormed off before anyone could get a word in. Wouldn’t answer calls, skipped three family Christmases, acted like all of Linda’s side of the family had it out for you. I figured you hated me by association,” she said, leaning against the booth again so her shoulder pressed light against his. The noise of the fair swirled around them: kids screaming on the Tilt-A-Whirl, a local country cover band drawling through “Friends in Low Places” 30 feet away, the sizzle of the fried dough stand sending the sweet smell of sugar and hot oil through the air. Jim yelled from the back of the booth that he was running to grab more root beer from the truck, and he was gone before Ray could argue.
“I saw you at the Kroger last month,” she said, quiet enough that only he could hear. “Buying frozen pepperoni pizza and a 12-pack of Pabst, all by yourself. Looked lonely. I almost walked over, but I was scared you’d tell me to go to hell.”
Ray’s chest felt tight, like someone was squeezing it with a gentle hand. No one had noticed little things like that about him since Linda died. He’d gotten so used to being invisible, to wallowing in the mix of guilt for wanting to feel anything other than grief and anger at Todd for the stupid tournament mess, that he’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone look at him like he was more than just the quiet retired lineman who fixed people’s fences for free. “I was lonely,” he said, before he could think better of it. “Just… didn’t think anyone cared enough to notice.”
She reached up, brushed a fleck of pork rub off his cheek with her thumb, her fingers warm against the stubble he’d forgotten to shave that morning. He didn’t pull away. “I noticed,” she said, and her voice was soft, no teasing, no awkwardness. “A lot more than you think. I’ve sat through two family reunions listening to Linda’s mom talk about how you’re still out there mowing her lawn every week, even though you haven’t spoken to most of the family in years. Knew you weren’t as much of an asshole as you pretend to be.”
The last of the anger in his chest melted away, faster than the ice melting in her lemon shake-up. He realized the disgust he’d carried for her all those years was never really about her—it was about being embarrassed he’d been cheated, about guilt that he was even considering feeling something for a woman who wasn’t Linda, about being scared to let anyone get close enough to see how lost he’d been after she died.
Jim trundled back 10 minutes later, carrying two cases of soda, and raised an eyebrow when he saw them laughing like they hadn’t spent a decade avoiding each other. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said, grinning. “Knew dragging your stubborn ass here was a good call.”
Ray asked her if she wanted to get a plate of fried Oreos after his shift ended at 8, and she said yes, no hesitation. When he handed her her change for the pulled pork sandwich she’d bought, he lingered, his calloused fingers wrapped around hers for a beat longer than necessary. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, winked, and said she’d be back right at 8, don’t make her wait. He watched her walk away toward the Ferris wheel, the sun setting behind her painting the sky streaks of tangerine and rose, and for the first time in four years, he didn’t feel the familiar dread of going home to an empty house when the day ended.
