Leo Marquez, 62, spent 38 years as a lineman for the Panhandle Rural Electric Cooperative, climbing 80-foot poles in sleet and 105-degree heat before he retired three years prior. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he’d spent the eight years since his wife Clara died stubbornly shutting down any hint of romantic interest from anyone in their small west Texas town, lying to his kids and grandkids about being “too busy fixing fence and rebuilding old truck engines” to go out, too scared of feeling like he was betraying Clara to even let himself notice a woman.
He was leaning against the split rail fence outside the 4-H goat barn at the county fair last Saturday, grease under his fingernails from patching a flat on his 1972 F-150 on the way in, a half-eaten corn dog on a greasy paper plate in one hand and a frosty root beer in the other, when someone’s elbow slammed hard into his forearm. Lemonade sloshed over the rim of the cup the stranger was holding, splattering the toe of his scuffed work boot. He bit back a grumble, then froze when he looked down. Marnie Hale, 54, Clara’s second cousin, the new county extension agent who’d moved back to town six months prior after her divorce, was staring up at him, hazel eyes crinkled at the corners in that familiar half-embarrassed laugh, a streak of silver cutting through the auburn braid slung over her shoulder, a smudge of charcoal on her left cheek from judging the kids’ art show earlier that afternoon.
She apologized immediately, grabbing a crumpled napkin from her jeans pocket and leaning in to wipe the lemonade off his boot before he could tell her not to bother, her shoulder brushing his chest as she bent down. The smell of her coconut shampoo mixed with the fried oreo and diesel fumes hanging over the fairgrounds hit him all at once, and he shifted his weight awkwardly, half of him wanting to step back, half of him wanting to lean in closer. She’d always been off limits, back when they were younger; Clara used to tease him at family reunions that Marnie had a crush on him, and he’d always brushed it off, even the tiniest thought of her making his stomach twist with guilt.
He told her the boot was fine, he’d had cow manure and transformer oil on it worse than lemonade, and she laughed, loud and bright, and said she’d recognized his truck parked by the entrance, she’d loved that old F-150 back when he and Clara drove it to the 1998 family reunion at Palo Duro Canyon. They fell into easy conversation, walking slowly toward the demolition derby bleachers, her arm brushing his every few steps, neither of them moving away. She told him her ex-husband had left her for a realtor in Amarillo two years prior, she’d moved back to town to be closer to her mom, and he found himself admitting he hadn’t been on a single date since Clara died, that he’d felt like it would be cheating, even if she was gone. The words felt heavy coming out, like he’d been carrying them for years.
They found seats halfway up the bleachers, and every time someone squeezed past to get to a lower row, their knees pressed together, warm through the denim of their jeans, and neither of them shifted to make space. When the first heat of the derby started, a beat-up old Chevy Impala spun out and slammed hard into the barrier right in front of them, sending a shower of dirt and plastic bumper shards flying over the first two rows. Everyone jumped, and Marnie grabbed his bicep, her hand warm and calloused from planting test plots at the extension office, her fingers curling tight around his muscle. He didn’t pull away.
After the track crew cleared the wreckage, she didn’t let go of his arm for a full minute, finally turning to look at him, her face lit up by the neon of the concession stand signs behind the bleachers. “Clara would yell at you for being so stubborn, you know that,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear. “She told me a month before she died, if she ever went first, I had to make sure you didn’t turn into a hermit who only talked to his chickens.” The twist of guilt he’d been carrying for years loosened all at once, like a rusted bolt finally giving way.
They stayed for the whole derby, yelling when the last remaining car sputtered across the finish line, Marnie’s hand still resting on his arm the entire time. When they walked out to the parking lot afterward, the sky was dark, strung with fairy lights strung between the oak trees lining the path, crickets chirping loud in the grass next to the sidewalk. He walked her to her beat-up Subaru, and she leaned in first, kissing his cheek soft, her lips warm against his sunburnt skin. He hesitated for half a second, then tilted his head, kissing her on the mouth, tasting lemonade and the cherry lollipop she’d been sucking on through the second heat of the derby.
He asked her if she wanted to come back to his place, his granddaughter had baked a peach pie that morning and left it on his porch, and if she was free the next day, the F-150 had a full tank, they could drive out to the canyon and hike the overlook trail they’d all taken back in 98. She said yes, grinning, and took his beat-up old flip phone from him to punch her number in, her fingers brushing his as she handed it back. He tucked the flip phone back into the pocket of his faded flannel shirt, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel guilty looking forward to the morning.
