Javier Mendez, 52, mobile retro arcade repair technician, yanks his work van into the gravel lot off Main Street at 2 PM on a 91-degree July afternoon, the kind of heat that makes asphalt shimmer and beer foam fizz over before you even lift the cup. He’s avoided the small town street fair the past three years, ever since his wife Lena died of a sudden stroke in their kitchen, but the fair board begged him to fix the 1981 Pac-Man cabinet at the beer tent, offered double his usual rate, and his truck’s AC died last week, so he caved. He grabs his dented metal toolbox from the back, slings the strap over his shoulder, and wipes sweat off his brow with the back of a grease-stained flannel sleeve.
The beer tent is run by Clara Bennett, 48, the local high school biology teacher, Lena’s former book club partner. Javier has spoken to her maybe six times in 15 years, all at group gatherings, all strictly polite, both of them careful to keep a respectful distance when Lena was alive, and even more careful after she died. She’s standing behind the counter wiping down a stack of plastic cups when he walks in, her sun-bleached blonde hair pulled back in a messy braid, a smudge of charcoal from the tent’s grill on her left cheek, wearing a faded Ohio State tank top and cutoffs that show the constellation of freckles across her knees. She looks up, blinks, then smiles, slow and warm, and Javier’s throat goes dry for a second, which he blames entirely on the heat.
She walks over to him, her rubber work boots sticking a little to the sticky, beer-soaked tent floor, and stops so close he can smell the coconut sunscreen she’s wearing mixed with the faint, sweet scent of strawberry lip balm. “I didn’t know they called you for this,” she says, her voice raised a little over the din of the Tilt-A-Whirl siren and the crowd yelling outside the tent flaps. He nods, gestures to the Pac-Man cabinet in the corner, its screen flickering, joystick half hanging off its base. “Said it’s been eating quarters all weekend, people are threatening to boycott the beer tent over it,” he says, and she laughs, a low, throaty sound that makes the corner of his mouth twitch up without him meaning it to. He kneels down to pop the back panel off the cabinet, and when he drops a flathead screwdriver, she bends down to grab it at the same time he does, their hands brushing, her skin cool against his calloused, grease-smudged warm fingers. He pulls his hand back like he’s been burned, mumbles a thank you, and she just smirks, hands him the screwdriver, and says she’ll leave a cold IPA on the edge of the counter when he’s ready for it.
He works on the machine for 45 minutes, the buzz of the cabinet’s faulty speaker humming in his ear, the smell of fried funnel cake and charred corn dogs drifting in through the tent’s open sides. Every time he looks up, she’s watching him, not in a hovering way, like she’s curious, and when their eyes meet, she doesn’t look away, just holds his gaze for a beat longer than is strictly friendly, before turning back to pour a draft for a group of sunburnt farmers. He finishes replacing the joystick and rewiring the screen, tests it by playing three rounds of Pac-Man, gets a high score that beats the one posted from 2019, and stands up, wiping his hands on the thigh of his frayed work jeans. He walks over to the counter to grab the IPA she left him, and when he takes the frosty cup from her, their fingers brush again, this time he doesn’t pull away. She leans in a little, her bare shoulder brushing his sunburnt bicep, and says, “I saw that high score. Lena always said you were freakishly good at those old arcade games.” The mention of Lena makes his chest tight, but not in the sharp, painful way it used to, more like a soft, warm ache, like she’s there laughing at him for being an idiot for avoiding Clara for three whole years.
The fair closes at 10 PM, the crowd thins out, ride operators start shutting down the Ferris wheel, the string lights strung across the tent dim to a soft golden glow. Clara starts stacking up the leftover plastic cups, and Javier leans against the counter, not sure if he should leave or stay, fighting the voice in his head that says this is wrong, that he’s betraying Lena by even thinking about talking to another woman, especially her closest friend. Then Clara pulls a Tupperware of peach pie out of the cooler under the counter, slides it across to him along with a plastic fork, and says, “My mom made it this morning. Figured you earned a slice after saving that damn Pac-Man cabinet.” He takes a bite, it’s sweet and warm, the crust flaky and dusted with cinnamon, and he admits out loud that he’s been avoiding her because he felt guilty, like he was doing something Lena would hate. Clara sits down across from him, reaches across the folding table, puts her hand on top of his, and says, “Lena used to tell me if anything ever happened to her, she’d kick my ass if I didn’t make sure you stopped holing up in that van of yours and had some fun for once.” He stares at her, surprised, and then she leans across the table, kisses him soft, her lips tasting like peach pie and that same strawberry lip balm Lena used to keep in her purse, and he kisses her back, slow, no rush, the sound of crickets chirping outside the tent the only noise for a full minute.
They walk out to the parking lot together an hour later, the leftover half of the pie in his hand, the cool night air making the sweat on his neck feel good. He stops at his truck, turns to her, and asks if she wants to get pancakes at the diner downtown tomorrow morning, the one that makes the blueberry pancakes Lena used to rave about every Sunday. She nods, smiles, tucks a strand of hair that fell out of her braid behind her ear, and writes her number on the back of a leftover beer tent napkin, shoves it in the pocket of his work shirt. He watches her drive away, then gets in his truck, pulls the napkin out of his pocket, runs his thumb over the messy scrawled digits, and turns the key in the ignition.
