Marty Rios, 62, retired high-voltage lineman, scuffs his work boots against the VFW’s grease-crusted linoleum as he slides onto his usual end-of-the-bar stool. He drove 12 minutes from his tiny rental bungalow for the Friday cod fry, same as he has every week since he moved to this central Florida burg six months prior, after his wife Linda’s three-year battle with lung cancer ended. His flaw? He’s stubborn to a fault, has spent the last three years refusing any invitation that doesn’t involve fixing a neighbor’s lawnmower or driving his 14-year-old granddaughter to soccer practice, convinced any romantic interest in another woman is a betrayal, that the 50+ mixers the county just approved for fraternal halls are little more than cringey, legalized cruising for people too old to hit the bars downtown.
The jukebox bleats Merle Haggard, the fryer hisses in the back, and Carla, the 48-year-old part-time bartender who moved down from Detroit post-divorce four months prior, slides a sweating can of Pabst onto his scuffed paper coaster without him asking. He avoids her eye contact at first, has for weeks, because he can’t stop noticing the way her flannel sleeves roll up to show a faint scar on her left wrist from a 22-year-old motorcycle crash, the way she laughs loud enough to cut through the room’s chaos when a vet tells a bad joke, the way her fingers brush his when she hands him his change. He’s been equal parts disgusted with himself for looking, and hungry for the split second of contact, a war he’s fought every time he walks through the door.
He’s halfway through his first hushpuppy, extra crispy just how he likes it, when she leans over the bar to grab his empty water glass, her elbow brushing the thick scar on his right bicep from a 2007 pole fall that put him out of work for six weeks. She pauses, her finger tracing the edge of the scar for half a second before she pulls back, holding his eye contact so long his ears go pink. “Saw you fixing that little kid’s BMX on the sidewalk by the grocery store yesterday,” she says, wiping the bar down with a rag that smells like lemon disinfectant. “Got a 1972 Schwinn in my garage with a flat I can’t get patched for the life of me. Would you take a look? I’ll pay you, or buy you as many beers as you want after.”
His first instinct is to say no, to make up an excuse about walking his rescue beagle, Max, or prepping for his granddaughter’s weekend soccer tournament. But she’s leaning in close enough that he can smell lavender shampoo over the fryer grease, her head tilted a little like she already knows he’s going to say yes, and he can’t make the words come out. “I don’t take pay for little jobs like that,” he says, clearing his throat, and he can hear his own voice shaking a little, equal parts excited and ashamed of the excitement. “I’ll take a look. But I gotta be home by 10 to let Max out.”
She grins, grabs her keys from under the bar, tells the other bartender she’s clocking out early. Her truck smells like pine air freshener and fast food fries when he climbs in, she keeps a stack of old Johnny Cash CDs on the dashboard, and the five-minute drive to her bungalow feels like it takes an hour, his hands folded tight in his lap like he’s a teen kid going to prom with his first girlfriend. The screen door slams behind them when they walk in, the air thick with the smell of jasmine from the bush on her porch and lemon Pledge, and she leads him out back to the garage where the Schwinn is propped against a shelf of old gardening tools.
He gets down on one knee, pulls the front tire off, finds a tiny shard of broken beer glass stuck in the tread, digging it out with his pocket knife. She leans against the workbench next to him, her bare arm brushing his shoulder when she hands him a flathead screwdriver, and he feels his breath catch when he looks up at her, the porch light gilding the edges of her hair. “I haven’t done anything like this since Linda died,” he says, before he can stop himself, his throat tight. “I feel like I’m breaking a rule I made for myself.”
She kneels down next to him, her knee brushing his, and taps the scar on his bicep again, soft. “Rules are good until they keep you from having something nice,” she says, and she tastes like peach iced tea and mint gum when he leans in to kiss her, no awkward fumbling, no rushed movements, just easy, like they’ve been doing this for years. Her hand rests on the side of his neck, her fingers calloused from pulling beer taps all week, and for the first time in three years, he doesn’t feel guilty, doesn’t feel like he’s betraying anyone, just feels warm, like he’s finally home.
He patches the tire 10 minutes later, inflates it, rolls the Schwinn back out to the porch. She asks him to stay for dinner, says she’s got meatloaf in the oven, extra ketchup on the side just how she’s seen him dip his hushpuppies in it. He calls his granddaughter, tells her he won’t be over to watch her practice recaps tonight, and she teases him so loud he has to hold the phone away from his ear. He sits down at her kitchen table, she slides a heaping plate in front of him, their knees brushing under the table as the radio on the counter plays old Cash deep cuts. He reaches across the table, hesitates for half a second before he wraps his fingers around hers, her palm warm and solid against his.
