Roland Voss is 62, spent 32 years as a high-tension line repairman climbing 100-foot transmission towers across Iowa and Nebraska before a torn rotator cuff forced his retirement four years back. His only real flaw is he’s held a grudge against anything that smells like “change” since his wife Lynn died of breast cancer eight years ago, sticking to a rigid routine of morning coffee on his Airstream steps, weekly woodworking in his shed, and Tuesday trivia at the local VFW where he and his buddies have been grumbling for three months straight about the new progressive school board member they’re convinced will gut the high school JROTC program his 16-year-old grandson is enrolled in.
The VFW smells like sour beer and burnt popcorn on this particular Tuesday, the neon Pabst sign above the bar buzzing so loud you can feel it in your fillings, every other table packed with guys who showed up early to grouse about the election results that were finalized the night before. Roland’s just reaching for his third draft when the chair across from him scrapes back, and she sits down. He recognizes her immediately from the campaign signs taped to every stop sign on the east side of town: Maeve Carter, 58, the board member everyone’s been complaining about, wearing a faded Harley-Davidson hoodie and jeans cuffed at the ankle, silver hoops glinting under the dim overhead lights. He’s ready to make a snarky comment about her invading “the old guys’ table” when their knees brush under the Formica top, accidental, and she holds his gaze for two full beats, no apology, just a half-smirk that makes the back of his neck feel warm.
The trivia host kicks off the next round before he can think of a comment, and Maeve ends up on their team by default, all the other seats in the building taken. She nails every 90s grunge music question, guesses the 1978 Ford F-150 engine spec question before Roland can even open his mouth, and when he snorts at a trick question about the 1986 World Series, she snorts right back, leaning in so their shoulders brush when she points at the answer sheet in front of him. Her hand brushes his when she passes him a basket of salted pretzels, calloused on the palm like she works with her hands, and she smells like lavender laundry soap and motor oil, not the flowery perfume Lynn used to wear, something sharper, more alive. He feels a twist of guilt in his gut when he remembers the names he called her at last week’s trivia night, the rants about “city liberals” ruining the town he’s lived in his whole life.
When their team wins by three points, she buys him a shot of Knob Creek, no mixers, just how he takes it, and leans against the bar next to him while his buddies drift over to congratulate them, all of them weirdly quiet now that she’s right there, not just a face on a sign. She mentions the JROTC program unprompted, says she’s not cutting it, she’s pushing to add a lineworker certification track to the curriculum so kids can get certified before they graduate, earn six figures right out of high school without going into student debt. Roland blinks, feels stupid for all the assumptions he made, and when she asks if he’d be willing to come talk to the class about his time on the lines, he says yes before he can think better of it.
The rain starts falling soft when they walk out to the parking lot together, she says her truck’s parked at the far end, asks him to walk her there so she doesn’t have to walk alone in the dark. They stop under the awning by the door for a second, the rain tapping loud on the metal overhang, and she tucks a strand of gray-streaked brown hair behind her ear before she leans in, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. He doesn’t. The kiss is soft at first, tastes like bourbon and peppermint gum, her hand coming to rest on the scar across his left knuckle he got during the 2017 ice storm, when he was up a tower for 12 hours repairing downed lines after a blizzard. He hasn’t kissed anyone since Lynn died, hasn’t even wanted to, but for a second he forgets where they are, forgets the guys inside, forgets all the stupid things he said about her just a week prior.
She pulls back first, grinning, and scribbles her phone number on a napkin with her vintage motorcycle repair shop logo printed on the back, says he can bring his dented 1994 F-150 by her shop next weekend, she’ll fix the broken tailgate he’s been putting off repairing for two years for half price, if he brings her a plate of the peanut butter chocolate chip cookies he mentioned he bakes for his grandson’s football games. He tucks the napkin into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, presses his thumb against the ink so it doesn’t smudge, and watches her drive off, her pickup’s taillights fading into the rain.
He walks back inside, where his buddies are hooting and catcalling, asking him what the hell he was doing making out with “that board lady” out in the parking lot. He just smirks, picks up his half-finished beer, and takes a long slow sip, the napkin still warm against his chest through his shirt.
