Rafe Sorensen, 62, retired air traffic controller, only broke his rigid weekly routine for two things: his 10-year-old granddaughter’s scouting events, and the annual Maple Falls chili cookoff. He’d spent eight years avoiding most community gatherings, hyper-vigilant to dodge well-meaning widows and busybody neighbors who kept trying to set him up on blind dates. His flaw? Thirty-five years scanning radar screens for anomalies had trained him to hate unplanned deviations, so any unscripted interaction made his shoulders hunch to his ears, his jaw tight enough to crack a tooth.
He was wiping chili off his granddaughter’s cheek after she took first place in the junior division when he turned too fast, the edge of his ceramic bowl catching the sleeve of a woman standing three inches behind him. A dollop of spicy beef chili plopped right on the cuff of her red plaid flannel, grease seeping fast into the woven fabric.
He froze, already reaching for napkins in his pocket, ready to stammer an apology, when he looked up and recognized her. Elara Mendez, 57, ex-wife of his old control tower coworker Rick, the guy everyone had hated for his loud mouth and lewd jokes about any woman within 10 feet. Rafe hadn’t seen her in 22 years, not since she left Rick and moved to Minnesota, and now she was standing right in front of him, laughing so hard her shoulders shook, the silver streak running through her dark wavy hair catching the golden fall sun.
He dabbed at the stain awkwardly, his calloused fingers brushing hers when she reached for the napkin too. She smelled like cinnamon and old paper, the same scent he remembered from when she’d drop off Rick’s lunch at the tower back in the 90s. He’d never spoken more than 10 words to her back then, too shy, too convinced she was out of his league, too loyal to the unwritten rule that you didn’t so much as look at a coworker’s wife even if that coworker was total garbage.
The crowd pressed in around them, a group of drunk 20-somethings carrying beer kegs forcing them to step closer, her shoulder pressing against his bicep. She leaned in to talk over the bluegrass band on the small stage, her warm breath hitting the shell of his ear, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. She said she’d moved back three months prior, bought the old used bookstore on Main Street. She said she’d asked the hardware store cashier about him two weeks prior, knew he’d be at the cookoff.
His first instinct was to run. To make an excuse about waiting for his daughter, to go back to his empty house, to stick to his routine of watching old westerns alone every Saturday night. He felt stupid, almost disgusted with himself for the way his heart raced, for the way he kept glancing at her mouth, at the freckles across her nose he’d never noticed back when they were younger. But then she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and he saw the tiny silver airplane earring she wore, the same kind the tower staff gave out for 10 years of service. He’d given Rick that pair for Christmas 1997, and she’d kept them.
She nodded toward the end of the park, where the street led down to Main. Said she had club soda behind the bookstore counter that would get the stain out, if he wanted to walk with her. He hesitated for two full seconds, then pulled a pen out of his pocket, scribbled a note to his daughter on the back of his granddaughter’s contest certificate, and tucked it under the picnic table bench.
The walk took seven minutes, dry maple leaves crunching under their work boots, crisp October air stinging his cheeks. Her hand brushed his three times on the way, each time lingering a little longer, and he didn’t pull away. When they got to the bookstore, she unlocked the front door, flipped the sign to closed, and locked it again behind them. The space smelled exactly like she did, old paper and cinnamon candles burning on the checkout counter, string lights strung above the poetry section casting soft gold light across the shelves.
She stepped close enough that he could feel the heat coming off her skin, and said she’d had a crush on him since the day he’d slipped her a homemade peanut butter cookie when Rick was in the bathroom, back in 1996. He’d never told anyone he baked those cookies, had hidden the Tupperware in his desk drawer so the other guys wouldn’t make fun of him. He hadn’t thought she’d even noticed.
He didn’t overthink it, didn’t run through all the reasons this was a bad idea, didn’t worry about what the old tower guys would say if they found out. He leaned in, kissed her slow, the taste of peach iced tea on her tongue, the rough edge of her flannel sleeve under his palm where he held her arm. Her hands came up to rest on his chest, fingers tangling in the collar of his flannel shirt, and he didn’t even flinch when a customer knocked on the locked glass door outside.
