Rafe Marquez, 62, retired air traffic controller, had dragged himself to the annual town fish fry only because his neighbor had banged on his cabin door at 4 p.m. threatening to take his entire collection of vintage CB radios to the dump if he didn’t get out of the house. He’d spent the last eight years mostly holed up alone, his wife Elaine’s sudden heart attack having knocked the willingness to socialize clean out of him. He spent most of his days taking apart and restoring vintage CB radios he picks up at estate sales within a 50-mile radius, a hobby he’d picked up a few months after Elaine died to keep his hands busy. His biggest flaw, he’d admit if pressed, was that he held onto rules so tight they cut off his circulation: no dating, no selling the old truck Elaine loved, no even drinking her favorite peach iced tea after she died, like any small joy would be a betrayal.
The air reeked of fried catfish grease, hushpuppy batter, and cheap domestic beer sloshing in plastic cups. A bluegrass trio plucked banjos and fiddles off to the side, their twang loud enough to drown out most of the small-town gossip flying between picnic tables. He was halfway through his second plate, grease crinkling the edge of the paper, when he saw her. He’d recognize that crooked smile anywhere, even with eight more years of laugh lines around her mouth and streaks of silver threading through her auburn hair: Clara Bennett, Elaine’s first cousin, 10 years younger than his late wife, the one who’d snuck him a shot of tequila at their wedding reception when Elaine wasn’t looking.
He froze. He hadn’t seen her since Elaine’s funeral, had no idea she’d moved to town. She spotted him a second later, her grin widening, and she cut through the crowd like she had a direct line to his table. She was wearing scuffed work boots, a faded Willie Nelson flannel rolled up to her elbows, and a smudge of ink on her left wrist. She moved close enough that he could smell lavender hand lotion mixed with the fried okra she was holding on her own plate, her shoulder brushing his bicep when she leaned in to yell over the band. “Thought that was you. Rafe, right? You haven’t aged a day, except you look even grumpier than you did when we dragged you camping in Big Bend back in ‘07.”
He fumbled for a napkin, his knuckles brushing hers when they both reached for the stack on the table at the same time. The jolt that ran up his arm was stupid, the kind of thing he’d laughed at when he was 20. He pulled his hand back fast, his face hot. He felt equal parts mortified and furious at himself for noticing how the sunset hit her hair, for realizing that the last time he’d felt even a flicker of something like interest in another person was before Elaine died. Part of him wanted to make an excuse and leave, to run back to his cabin and his CB radios where there were no rules to break. The other part couldn’t look away.
She sat down across from him, leaning forward so she didn’t have to yell. She said she’d moved to town three months prior to open a used bookstore, had remembered how Rafe and Elaine used to rave about the Hill Country, had always loved the area when she visited. She teased him about the time he’d gotten lost on a hiking trail and insisted he’d “planned the detour” to find a hidden swimming hole. He found himself laughing before he could stop himself, a rough, rusty sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in years. When she passed him a slice of lemon meringue pie she’d grabbed from the dessert table, their fingers brushed again, and this time he didn’t yank his hand away.
The sun dipped below the oak trees as they talked, fireflies blinking to life around the edge of the park. The band slowed down to a waltz, and most of the crowd had filtered out to head home, leaving only a handful of stragglers by the beer stand. Clara stood up, nodding toward the walking trail that cut through the park to the main road, and he followed her without thinking. The air was cool now, carrying the smell of cedar from the hills nearby. She stopped halfway down the trail, turning to face him, her expression softer than it had been all night.
“I should probably be honest,” she said, her voice quiet enough that only he could hear it. “I didn’t just move here for the town. I thought about you, a lot, after Elaine died. I never said anything back then, because it wasn’t the right time. But I always thought you were the good kind of stubborn, the kind that sticks around. I know it’s weird, I know people will talk if we’re seen together. I just didn’t want to pretend I didn’t come here looking for you.”
Rafe’s chest felt tight. For eight years, he’d told himself any kind of connection with another person was a slap in Elaine’s face, that he owed it to her to be lonely for the rest of his life. But he could hear Elaine’s voice in his head, clear as day, teasing him for being a dumbass for holding onto grief so hard he forgot how to live. He reached up, brushing a stray leaf out of her hair, his palm brushing her cheek for half a second. “I’m old,” he said, half laughing. “I don’t care what people talk about.”
She smiled, leaning in just a little, close enough that he could feel her breath on his jaw. They agreed to meet for coffee at her shop the next morning, no pressure, no big plans, just to talk. He walked her to her beat up pickup truck parked on the side of the road, and she gave him a quick, warm hug, her arms squeezing his waist tight enough that he could feel the heat of her through his flannel shirt. She pulled away, waving as she turned the key in the ignition, and he stood there on the curb until her taillights disappeared around the bend.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, shooting a quick text to his neighbor telling him he didn’t need a ride home, he was going to walk the three miles back to the cabin to enjoy the night. He stuffed the phone back in his pocket, shoving his hands in his jacket, and started walking, the sound of crickets chirping loud in the dark around him.
