Rudy Galvan, 62, retired HVAC foreman, had sat at the same splintered picnic table at the VFW fish fry every Friday for 12 years. He’d developed the routine the week his divorce from Linda finalized, after he’d caught her in their bed with the 22-year-old apprentice he’d spent three years training. His flaw was stubbornness, the kind that made him hold a grudge so tight his jaw ached most mornings, that made him cross the street if he saw anyone from Linda’s extended family coming his way. He spent most of his free time under the hood of his 1987 Ford F-150, grease under his fingernails that no amount of Lava soap could fully scrub out, and he’d not so much as bought a woman a drink since the divorce.
The first sign his routine was about to break was when someone dropped a paper plate of catfish and hushpuppies across from him, the scent of fried cornmeal and tartar sauce mixing with the Shiner Bock he’d just popped open. He looked up, ready to tell the person to take a hike, and froze. He recognized her: Maren Reyes, Linda’s first cousin, the one who’d won the county pie contest three years running before she moved to Oklahoma after her husband died of a heart attack five years prior. She’d moved back to town two weeks prior to take the county clerk job, he’d heard through the grapevine, and he’d been actively avoiding running into her ever since.
He made to stand up, but she laughed, low and warm, and held up a hand to stop him. “Relax. I’m not here to run my mouth about Linda. I thought the bitch was out of line the second she told me what she did, for the record. I haven’t spoken to her in six years, not since she stole my prize peach cobbler off the dessert table at my grandma’s funeral and tried to pass it off as her own at the state fair.”
Rudy blinked, then sat back down, a surprised huff of laughter escaping him. He’d heard that story, actually, from a mutual friend, but he’d never thought anyone from Linda’s family would admit she was in the wrong. Maren leaned forward across the table, elbows propped on the scratchy plastic, and he caught the scent of lavender perfume mixed with a hint of motor oil, and it didn’t make his skin crawl like he expected it would. Her knee brushed his under the table when she shifted, and he tensed for half a second before he realized he didn’t mind the contact.
They talked for 45 minutes, first about the time Linda tried to convince the whole family that Rudy had forgotten their 15th anniversary (he hadn’t, she’d forgotten he was working an emergency call at the hospital that night), then about his F-150, then about the 1972 Chevy C10 she’d bought from her late husband’s brother, the one she’d been slowly restoring in her garage for the past two years. When they both reached for the same jar of pickled okra in the middle of the table at the same time, their fingers brushed, and Rudy felt a jolt go up his arm that he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager sneaking into drive-in movies with his high school girlfriend.
Maren didn’t pull her hand away right away. She held his gaze for three long beats, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half smile, before she grabbed a piece of okra and popped it in her mouth. “You wanna come back to my place and see the Chevy?” she asked, tilting her head toward the parking lot. “I got a fridge full of cold Shiner, and I’ve been stuck on the carburetor for three weeks. I could use a second opinion.”
Rudy’s first instinct was to say no. He knew what would happen if anyone saw him leaving the fish fry with Maren. The whole town would be talking about it by Saturday morning, Linda would find out by noon, and she’d blow up his phone so many times he’d have to change his number again. He’d spent 12 years avoiding that exact kind of drama, shutting everyone out so he didn’t have to deal with the mess of other people’s opinions.
He looked at her, though, at the calluses on her fingers from turning wrenches, at the crinkle around her eyes when she smiled, at the way she wasn’t playing games, wasn’t pretending to be someone she wasn’t. He thought about the 12 years he’d spent alone, working on his truck, eating fish fry by himself, going home to an empty house every night, and he realized he was tired of being angry. Tired of letting a mistake his ex made 12 years prior run every single part of his life.
He stood up, grabbed his half-empty beer, and nodded. Maren grinned, stood up, and slung her purse over her shoulder. Her arm brushed his as they walked through the parking lot to her truck, and he didn’t move away. She drove a beat-up 1998 Toyota Tacoma, the floor mats covered in wrench sets and fast food wrappers, and the radio was tuned to the same old country station he listened to in his F-150.
When they pulled up to her small ranch house on the edge of town, he could see the tarp-covered Chevy in the driveway, just like she’d said. She unlocked the front door, grabbed two cold Shiners out of the fridge by the door, and handed one to him before he even stepped over the threshold. They sat down on the porch swing, the wood creaking under their weight, and she pointed out the parts she’d already replaced on the Chevy, her hand gesturing wildly as she talked. When her hand rested lightly on his thigh as they swung, he didn’t pull away.
