Gus Marquez is 61, has built custom fly rods for every corner of the Southeast out of his cinder block workshop outside Asheville for 22 years. His only consistent company the past 8 has been a hound dog named Mutt and the stray cats that curl up on his workbench for warmth, ever since his wife Linda died mid-chemo, halfway through their planned cross-country road trip. His biggest flaw is he still treats any casual warmth from a woman like a personal failure, like he’s breaking a vow he never actually made to stay alone forever. He avoids the town’s weekly beer garden like the plague most weeks, but the fish taco truck parked out front for fair week makes the only al pastor tacos north of the Georgia border that taste like the ones he and Linda ate on their honeymoon in Cozumel, so he braves the crowd.
The place is packed, folding tables jammed between hay bales, a bluegrass trio plucking a fast tune near the outdoor bar, sweat and beer and fried dough hanging thick in the humid July air. He’s standing by the taco truck waiting for his order, wiping sawdust off the cuff of his worn flannel, when he hears his name called over the noise. It’s Clara Bennett, 54, the county rec department coordinator he’s spent two years deliberately avoiding, ever since he caught himself staring at the flex of her forearms when she hauled a 50-pound cooler of ice to the youth fishing tournament he volunteered at. She’s waving him over to the only empty seat at her table, right next to her, and he can’t think of a polite excuse to say no, so he walks over.
She slides a bowl of salted peanuts across the table when he sits, their fingers brushing for half a second, her skin warm, smelling like lavender hand cream and the peach seltzer she’s sipping. Her knee presses against his under the table when she leans in to yell over the band, asking how the custom rod he’s building for the rec department’s annual fishing giveaway is coming along. He’s surprised she even remembers he’s building it, and he fumbles for a second before answering, his ears going hot when he realizes she’s holding eye contact longer than strictly polite, the corner of her mouth tugged up in a tiny, teasing smile.
He spends the next 20 minutes half-listening to the two guys on the other side of the table argue about college football, half hyper-aware of every tiny movement Clara makes: the way she tucks a strand of silver-streaked auburn hair behind her ear when she laughs, the callus on the tip of her index finger from the pottery classes she takes at the community center, the way her knee stays pressed to his even when there’s plenty of room to move away. A thread of guilt twists in his chest, sharp and familiar, like he’s doing something wrong, like Linda is watching from somewhere and shaking her head. He tells himself he should leave as soon as his tacos are ready, that he’s too old for whatever this is, that he doesn’t need the hassle of new feelings when he’s perfectly content with his quiet life.
The taco truck worker calls his name, and he stands up fast, nearly knocking over his beer. Clara laughs, steadying the cup with one hand, her palm brushing his stomach through his flannel when she leans up to do it. He freezes for a beat, the warmth of her hand seeping through the thin fabric, every thought in his head going blank for a second. She hands him the beer, tilting her head, asking if he minds if she walks with him to his truck, since her car is parked two rows over. He nods, too flustered to speak, grabbing the paper bag of tacos from the counter, letting her lead the way through the crowd.
It’s started to rain by the time they get to the parking lot, soft, warm summer drops that dot the asphalt and stick to his hair. She stops next to his beat up Ford F-150, reaching up to flip down the collar of his flannel that had gotten pushed up when he stood from the table. Her thumb brushes the thin scar on his jaw, the one he got when he fell off a ladder building his workshop 10 years ago, and she doesn’t pull away when he doesn’t flinch. “I know you think staying alone is what you owe her,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear over the patter of rain on the truck roof, “but Linda told me herself, six months before she died, that she wanted you to stop being lonely once she was gone.”
The air leaves his lungs all at once. He’d never told anyone how guilty he felt, never even admitted it to himself out loud, that the small sparks of interest he’d felt in Clara over the past two years felt like betrayal. He stares at her, the rain dripping off the end of her nose, her eyes soft, no pity, no pressure, just something warm and open he hasn’t seen in almost a decade. The guilt doesn’t disappear all at once, but it softens, melts a little around the edges, like ice on a spring creek. He asks her if she wants to come back to his place, to see the finished rod, to split the tacos, if she doesn’t have anywhere else to be. She grins, bright and easy, saying she’d cleared her whole night just in case he asked.
He drives slow back to his property, the tacos still warm on the passenger seat, the rain letting up by the time he pulls into his gravel driveway. He turns on the porch light, leans against the rail while he waits for her to pull in behind him, watching fireflies blink in the oak trees at the edge of his yard, Mutt barking once from the front door when he spots Clara’s car. She gets out, tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear, wiping a drop of rain off her cheek with the back of her hand, and lifts the six pack of peach seltzer she’d grabbed from her back seat to wave at him.
