Rafe Mendez is 57, makes custom fly rods for a living out of a cinder block workshop behind his cabin outside Asheville, North Carolina. He’s got a scar snaking up his left forearm from a table saw accident 12 years back, still wears his wedding band even though his wife left him for a real estate agent in Charlotte eight years prior, and hates public events with a passion that rivals his hatred of cheap epoxy. His niece dragged him to the downtown summer street fair that night, threatening to post all the embarrassing photos of him in a 90s mullet from his high school yearbook to his business Instagram if he said no, so he’d showed up in scuffed work boots, a flannel shirt dotted with sawdust, and a scowl that would’ve chased off most people who tried to talk to him.
He was waiting in the BBQ line, debating bailing before his niece could drag him to the craft booths run by the local yoga moms, when someone slammed into his back hard enough to make him jolt. Cold, sweet lemonade sloshed over his left shoulder, soaking through the flannel to his skin. He turned around, ready to snap, and froze. It was Clara Bennett, the 49 year old county librarian he’d been exchanging awkward two-sentence small talk with for six months every time he dropped off old fishing books at the downtown branch. She was wearing a cream linen blouse, cat-eye glasses perched on the end of her nose, her usual tight low bun coming loose a little at the temples, a streak of pink lemonade on her wrist.
She rambled out an apology, grabbing a crumpled napkin from her tote bag and dabbing at the wet spot on his sleeve before she thought better of it, her knuckles brushing the scar on his forearm for half a second. The contact sent a jolt up his spine he hadn’t felt in close to a decade. He could smell lavender hand lotion on her skin, hear the faint tremor in her voice when she said she’d been meaning to track him down for weeks, ever since he’d left a tattered 1972 copy of *Trout Fishing in America* at the library with a handwritten list of his favorite secret spots on the French Broad River tucked between the pages.
He’d resisted talking to her for months, had talked himself out of asking her out at least a dozen times. Everyone in town said she was too prim, too stuck on her work, too “nice” for a gruff guy who spent 10 hours a day covered in sawdust and epoxy, who hadn’t been on a date since 2015. He’d spent the last eight years convincing himself dating at his age was a fool’s game, that anyone who showed even a flicker of interest was just after free custom rods or the small nest egg he’d built up since quitting the manufacturing plant. It was easier to shut everyone out, to stick to his workshop and his fishing trips alone, no risk of getting left again. But when she tilted her head and asked if he wanted to share a plate of fried green tomatoes with her while they waited for the fireworks, he found himself saying yes before he could overthink it.
The first firework went off right as he was telling her about the custom rod he was building for a pro angler out of Montana, painting the night bright red. They were sitting close enough that her shoulder was pressed to his, the linen of her blouse soft against his rough flannel. She leaned in to say something about how pretty the colors were, her mouth right next to his ear, her breath warm against the side of his neck, and he turned his head before he could think better of it. Their lips brushed for half a second, then he pulled back, ready to apologize, to say he’d gotten carried away, but she grabbed the front of his flannel shirt and pulled him back in, kissing him slow, the faint taste of lemonade on her lips.
The crowd cheered around them as the fireworks exploded overhead, but he didn’t notice any of it. All he could feel was her hand in his hair, the soft press of her body against his, the way she smiled against his mouth when they pulled apart a minute later. She told him she’d been wanting to do that ever since he’d left that note in the book, had been too nervous to ask him out herself, thought he hated libraries because he always left so fast after dropping off books.
They walked back to his beat up Ford F-150 after the fireworks ended, their fingers laced together, his calloused hand dwarfing hers. He offered to pick her up at 7 a.m. the next Saturday, bring a spare rod, take her to one of the spots he’d written down in the book. She said yes, leaning against the side of the truck for a second before she climbed in, brushing a fleck of sawdust off his cheek with her thumb.
