Moe Sorrentino, 59, semi-retired custom hardwood staircase installer, showed up to the Asheville VFW’s Friday fish fry with his usual jar of fermented okra tucked under one arm, steel-toe boots still dusted with oak shavings from a small job he’d wrapped that afternoon. He’d carried a grudge against Lila Mae Hargrove for 12 full years, ever since his ex-wife had stormed the dock before his annual deep-sea fishing tournament, screaming that he’d skipped his sister-in-law’s baby shower to drink beer with his crew, and he’d been convinced Lila was the one who ratted him out. He’d moved to the mountains 8 years prior, right after the divorce, and hadn’t seen her since the day he’d loaded his moving truck, so when he spotted her leaning against the fry counter asking for extra hushpuppies slathered in honey butter, he almost turned right around and left.
The only empty seat in the whole hall was at the four-top across from her, so he sighed, shouldered past a group of old marines arguing about college football, and dropped his tray down hard enough that his coleslaw sloshed over the edge of the paper boat. She looked up, recognized him immediately, and grinned so wide the silver hoops in her ears swayed. Her dark hair was streaked with soft gray, braided down her back, and there was a faint smudge of flour on her left wrist, leftover from baking peach cobbler with her niece, who’d just had a baby two towns over. He grunted a greeting, picked at his catfish, and avoided eye contact for the first three minutes, until she leaned across the table, elbows propped, and called him out for still being mad about the baby shower.
He was halfway through a bitter retort when she laughed, loud and throaty, over the roar of the crowd cheering a touchdown on the overhead TV. “I didn’t tell her, dummy,” she said, shaking her head. “She saw your truck parked at the ramp on her way to pick up a cake. I took the blame because she was already two seconds from calling the coast guard to report you missing, and I knew you’d been training for that tournament for six months. You’re welcome, by the way.” The words knocked him flat, and he sat back, blinks slow, replaying that whole messy day in his head, realizing he’d wasted 12 years hating the only person who’d actually had his back that weekend.
The Tennessee fans in the back were yelling so loud the windows rattled, so they both leaned in closer to talk, their knees brushing under the table once, then again, neither of them pulling away. She reached for his jar of okra without asking, her fingers brushing his when he slid it across the table, her skin warm and calloused at the knuckles from decades of tending to her grandmother’s vegetable farm back in eastern North Carolina. She bit into an okra pod, crunched loud, and teased him for still fermenting his own, just like he had at every backyard barbecue they’d ever attended together back when he was married. He teased her right back for still stealing his food, same as she had when she’d crash their cookouts after long days working the farm.
The smell of fried grease and pine from the open back door wrapped around them, and for a minute it felt like no time had passed at all, like they were both 10 years younger, no divorce, no grudge, no miles between them. When they both reached for the squeeze bottle of hot sauce at the same time, their forearms brushed, the rough denim of her jacket scraping lightly against the flannel of his shirt, and he felt a jolt run up his arm that he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager working up the nerve to ask his first girlfriend to prom. He’d spent 8 years intentionally avoiding any kind of casual connection, had convinced himself he was better off alone, building staircases and fishing on weekends and not answering to anyone, but sitting across from Lila, watching her laugh at a dumb joke he made about his ex-wife’s terrible meatloaf, that resolve felt thinner than a sheet of veneer.
She said she was staying in town for another week, that she’d been wanting to hike the trail to the Craggy Gardens overlook for years but didn’t want to go alone, and asked him if he was free Saturday. He hesitated for half a second, thought about the stack of lumber he was supposed to cut for a client’s staircase, thought about all the excuses he could make, then nodded and said he’d pick her up at her niece’s house at 9 a.m. She scribbled her cell number on a crumpled napkin, slid it across the table, and her fingers lingered on his for a beat longer than necessary, her thumb brushing the scar on his knuckle he’d gotten when he fell off a ladder 5 years back.
He walked her to her beat-up pickup truck in the parking lot after they finished eating, the air crisp enough that he could see their breath fogging in the dark, the distant sound of crickets chirping from the woods lining the lot. She leaned in to hug him goodbye, her hair smelling like lavender and cinnamon, and he held her a little tighter than he meant to, the curve of her waist fitting perfectly against his palms. She climbed into her truck, rolled down the window, and waved as she pulled out of the lot, her headlights cutting through the dark. He stood there for a minute, holding the napkin with her number crumpled in his pocket, picked up the half-eaten hushpuppy she’d left on his tray, took a bite, and tasted the sweet, salty honey butter she’d slathered all over it.
