Ronan O’Malley, 58, retired wildland fire crew supervisor, had told his next-door neighbor Marnie three separate times he had no interest in the Coconino County Fair. Stubbornness was his least favorite flaw, one his late wife had ribbed him for for 28 years, but he’d spent the seven years since her death perfecting the art of being alone, no small talk, no awkward setups, no expectations. He only caved when his 11-year-old grandson called, voice wobbly, begging him to come see his 4-H pig take third place in the market class.
The September heat hung thick enough to sip, heavy with the smell of hickory smoke, cotton candy, and pine drifting off the Peaks. Ronan was lined up for a smoked brisket sandwich, sweat beading at the edge of his graying crew cut, work boots dust-caked to the laces, when a sharp elbow dug into his left bicep. He turned, ready to snap, and froze.
Elara Voss. His son’s 10th grade English teacher, the one he’d stared at for ten full seconds during a parent-teacher conference back in 2007 before remembering he was married, his kid was sitting right next to him, and ogling a high school teacher was the kind of creepy middle-aged guy move he’d always mocked. He’d felt sick with himself for weeks after, tamping down any stray thought of her the second it popped up, writing the stupid attraction off as a midlife crisis blip. She was 52 now, a few silver strands threading through her dark wavy hair, silver hoops glinting in the sunset, wearing a linen sundress the color of wild sage, holding two frosty lemonades. She smelled like jasmine and coconut sunscreen, and when she grinned, the same crinkles fanned out at the corners of her eyes that he’d remembered all those years.
“Ronan, right? You came in yelling about how your son wasn’t skipping my class to smoke, he was skipping to climb boulders up at Schultz Pass,” she said, and laughed, a warm, rough sound that made the back of his neck tingle. She didn’t move away, even though there was three feet of empty space on the sidewalk next to her, her shoulder brushing his every time someone squeezed past the line.
He found himself laughing back, leaning against the food stand railing, telling her his son was 32 now, a climbing guide in Portland, had two kids of his own who were already scaling the bookshelves in his apartment. She told him she’d retired from teaching two years prior, moved back to Flagstaff after her ex-husband left her for a 28-year-old realtor he’d met at a golf tournament, was working part-time at the independent bookstore downtown. When his brisket order was called, she followed him to the splintered wooden picnic tables, sat down so close their knees knocked under the table, and didn’t shift away when he adjusted his position.
The old, stupid guilt pricked at him first, the voice in his head that said she was off-limits, that noticing her was still wrong, even if his kid was grown, even if he’d been single for seven years, even if she was leaning in when he talked, like she actually cared what he had to say about the controlled burns he still volunteered for every spring. The desire won out, slow and warm, when they both reached for the jar of dill pickles on the table at the same time, her fingers brushing his, calloused from turning pages, soft where she’d painted her nails a pale pink. She didn’t pull her hand away for three full beats, just held his gaze, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a smile that felt like a secret.
The fireworks started right as he finished his sandwich, booms shaking the ground, painting the sky pink and blue and gold. Everyone around them cheered, and she leaned in to yell over the noise, her hand resting light on his forearm to steady herself, her breath warm against his ear, “I always hated the school board’s stupid rule against dating parents, by the way. I thought you were cute back then, too.”
He didn’t think. He turned his head, their faces inches apart, the light from the fireworks gilding the edge of her cheekbone, and kissed her. She kissed him back, one hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, tasting like lemonade and cherry sours, and the last of that stupid, lingering guilt melted right out of him, like frost off a pine needle in the sun.
They stayed like that until the last firework fizzled out, the crowd around them dispersing, kids screaming as they ran to their parents. They walked slow to the parking lot, their arms brushing every other step, no awkward silences, no pressure. He asked her if she wanted to come over to his cabin the next afternoon, said he had a porch that looked straight out at the Peaks, made a peach cobbler that his grandson swore was better than the fair’s. She said yes, dug a crumpled napkin out of her purse, scrawled her number on it in sparkly purple pen, tucked it into the front pocket of his work jeans, and patted his chest once, light, before she turned to head to her beat-up Subaru.
He stood there for five full minutes, holding the empty brisket tray he’d forgotten to throw in the trash, watching her taillights fade down the dirt fairground road, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel like rushing home to be alone.
