Milo Thorne is 57, makes his living restoring vintage pickup trucks out of a cinder block shop on the west edge of Missoula, Montana, and hasn’t voluntarily attended a community event that didn’t involve car shows or cold draft beer in 12 years. His wife died in a skiing accident the winter they turned 45, and he’s spent the years since avoiding small talk, dodging setups from well-meaning neighbors, and sanding rust off old Ford bodies until his knuckles split so often the scar tissue is thicker than the calluses on his palms. The only reason he’s at the July street fair is to drop off his fully restored 1972 F-150 for the classic vehicle showcase, and he’s already mentally mapping his exit route when he spots the hand-painted pottery booth tucked between the fried onion blossom stand and the 4-H goat display.
He’s always had a soft spot for stoneware; his wife collected mugs from every small town they ever drove through, so he veers off the crowded sidewalk to browse. The booth is cramped, shelves stacked high with mugs and bowls glazed in deep blues and purples, and when he reaches for a stein painted with mountain bluebirds on the top shelf, another hand bumps his. It’s soft, smudged with teal acrylic paint on the thumb, and when he looks down he’s staring at Lena Marquez, his nephew’s ex-wife. He hasn’t seen her since the divorce finalized six months prior, remembers her from their wedding 10 years back, quiet, sharp, laughed so hard at his terrible engine-part joke she snort-laughed into her champagne flute.
She’s 34, just moved back to Missoula to work remotely and help her mom recover from knee replacement surgery, and she grins when she recognizes him, leaning in so close he can smell coconut sunscreen and faint vanilla lip balm over the greasy fried food scent drifting from the next booth. The aisle behind him is packed with fairgoers, so he can’t step back without bumping into a family pushing a stroller, and they’re standing less than a foot apart, her shoulder brushing his bicep every time she shifts her weight. He knows he should leave, that messing around with your nephew’s ex is the kind of thing that sparks family drama lasting decades, that every old biddy at the church potluck will be whispering about it before the week is out, but when she asks if he wants a cold lemonade he can’t say no.
She pulls a can from the cooler under the table, their fingers brushing when she hands it to him, his calloused, scarred knuckles grazing her soft wrist, and he feels a jolt run up his arm that has nothing to do with the 85 degree heat. He sits on a folding chair next to the booth, and they talk for 40 minutes, her teasing him about wearing a heavy flannel shirt in mid-July, him teasing her about the bright purple huckleberry stain on her left cheek she didn’t notice after eating a snow cone earlier. The bluegrass band on the main stage plays fast, twangy fiddle covers of old Johnny Cash songs, and the crowd noise fades into static until he can only hear her laugh, bright and loud, when he tells her about the time he tried to restore a 1968 Chevy and the engine caught fire halfway through the job.
A group of kids sprint through the aisle chasing a runaway golden retriever, one slamming into the booth so hard the entire top shelf wobbles. The bluebird stein he was reaching for teeters off the edge, and he dives forward to catch it, landing half in Lena’s lap, his chest pressed tight to her shoulder, one hand braced on the side of her thigh to keep from falling. He grabs the stein mid-fall, no damage, and when he looks up she’s laughing so hard tears are in her eyes, her breath warm against his neck. Before he can think better of it, before he can remember this is his nephew’s ex, that half the fair knows both of them, she leans in and kisses him, quick and soft, right on the corner of his mouth, right as the fiddle hits a loud, screaming note that drowns out every other sound for three whole seconds.
He freezes for half a beat, then kisses her back, just as quick, his thumb brushing the huckleberry stain on her cheek before he pulls away, scanning the crowd to make sure no one they know saw. No one’s looking, everyone’s watching the dog dart past the cotton candy stand, and she grins, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, scribbling her cell number on a scrap of brown craft paper and shoving it into the pocket of his flannel. She tells him to meet her at his shop at 8, after the fair closes, when the crowds are gone, she’ll bring the bluebird stein and a six pack of his favorite IPA, the one he always buys at VFW beer night.
He nods, stands, tucks the scrap deeper into his pocket so it doesn’t fall out, and walks toward the classic car show to check on his F-150. He glances back over his shoulder 20 feet away, and she’s leaning against the booth pole, waving, the purple huckleberry stain still bright on her cheek, and he feels the corner of his mouth tug up into a real grin, the first one he’s had that didn’t involve a perfectly running engine in 12 years.
