Rafe Delgado, 59, retired high-rise ironworker, carries a scar snaking up his left forearm from a 2018 beam slip that put him in the hospital for six weeks. He’s manned the local ironworkers union’s fried Oreo booth at the Wilson County Fair every September for 22 years. His wife Karen used to work the register next to him, bantering with regulars and slipping extra powdered sugar to neighborhood kids, until she died of ovarian cancer six years prior. Since then, he’d shown up alone, turned down every half-joking advance from the widows who ran the canned goods booth, told his buddies he was perfectly fine spending his nights restoring his 1972 F-150 and fishing the Guadalupe River by himself. His biggest flaw, as his older brother liked to tease him, was that he was stubborn enough to punish himself for being the one who got to live.
The sun was dipping low over the Ferris wheel, painting the sky tangerine and lavender, when she walked up. He knew her instantly, even if the last time he’d seen her she was 12 years old with pigtails and a neon pink cast on her wrist from falling off her bike. Lila Mae Carter, now 40, was a wildlife biologist who’d moved back to town three months prior to run the new county nature preserve, recently finalized her divorce from a pharmaceutical rep who’d cheated on her with his coworker. She leaned against the edge of the booth, grinning, and asked for two fried Oreos, extra powdered sugar, same as she used to when she was a kid. The smell of her jasmine perfume tangled with the scent of fried dough, grilled corn, and hay from the livestock barn next door, and Rafe felt his throat go dry for half a second before he laughed and handed her the plate, his calloused fingertips brushing hers for a split second.
They talked for 40 minutes, while the line for the booth died down and the sound of the Tilt-A-Whirl’s creaky chains mixed with the screams of giddy teens. She told him about the bobcat she’d spotted on the preserve the week before, leaning in so close he could see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, her elbow brushing his bicep every time she gestured. He told her about the time he’d helped her mom fix their leaky roof for free after Hurricane Harvey, when the entire east side of town was flooded and half the contractors were charging three times their normal rate. A group of kids ran past, screaming, chasing a peer with a cotton candy stick, and she stepped closer to avoid being bumped, her shoulder pressing fully against his, warm through the thin flannel shirt he was wearing. For a second he tensed up, ready to step back, ready to tell himself this was wrong, that he was betraying Karen, that he was a creep for even noticing how soft her hair looked in the golden hour light, but then she laughed at a stupid joke he made about his truck breaking down on the way to the fair that morning, and the tension melted right out of his shoulders.
The first firework went off with a boom just as he was wiping grease off his hands with a crumpled paper napkin, painting the sky bright red. The crowd around them cheered, and a group of drunk college kids stumbled past, forcing her to grab his arm to steady herself, her hand warm and firm around his scarred forearm. She didn’t let go even when the kids were gone, just tilted her head up to watch the next round of fireworks burst blue and green across the sky. He didn’t pull his arm away. For the entire 15 minute show, they stood that way, shoulders pressed together, her hand resting light on his arm, the booms of the fireworks vibrating in his chest right alongside the fast, unfamiliar thud of his heart. He thought about Karen, about how she’d always told him he’d be an idiot if he didn’t find someone to make him laugh after she was gone, and for the first time in six years, he didn’t feel guilty for wanting something that wasn’t tied to the life he’d lost.
When the last firework fizzled out, the crowd dispersed, heading for the exit or the beer tent at the far end of the fairgrounds. Lila pulled her hand back, and he missed the weight of it immediately. She tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, grinning a little shyly, and asked if he wanted to grab a beer and some carnitas tacos at the dive bar off Main Street tomorrow night, said she wanted to pick his brain about the best hidden spots to hike along the river. He didn’t even hesitate before saying yes. She handed him her phone, her lock screen a photo of her holding a tiny fluffy rescue fox, and he typed his number in, his calloused thumb brushing her knuckles when he passed the phone back. She waved, told him she’d text him the time in the morning, and turned to walk off to meet her friends who were waiting by the gate. Rafe leaned back against the booth, twisted the cap off a warm root beer, and watched her go, the neon glow of the Ferris wheel painting bright pink and blue streaks across the back of her worn denim jacket.
