Woody Rainer, 62, retired high school welding instructor with knuckles crisscrossed with old burn scars and a habit of turning down every social invite he gets, had only agreed to come to the VFW fish fry because his next-door neighbor showed up on his porch at 4 p.m. with a six pack of Pabst and refused to leave until he caved. He’d spent the morning patching a split rail fence around his 3-acre property, so his work boots were caked in red clay, his faded gray hoodie still had a smudge of weld slag on the left cuff, and he’d forgotten to shave, so his stubble itched when the wind picked up off the nearby lake. He leaned against the cinder block wall of the post, picking at a hushpuppy on his paper plate, ignoring the group of retirees yelling over each other about last week’s bass tournament, already mentally mapping out the list of chores he could knock out when he got home.
The first time she bumped into him, he didn’t even look up. He just shifted his plate to his other hand, assuming it was some kid weaving through the crowd with a soda. The second time, a full slosh of sweet tea hit the front of his hoodie, cold and sticky, and he looked up ready to snap, until he saw her face. Marnie Cole, 58, Linda’s younger cousin, the girl who’d shown up to his wedding in cutoff denim and bare feet, who’d brought him homemade peach jam every time Linda was in the hospital near the end, who he hadn’t seen since the funeral eight years prior. Her hair was streaked with silver now, pulled back in a loose braid, a flannel shirt tied around her waist, the same scuffed work boots he’d seen her wear when she was 19, hauling boxes for her mom’s garage sale. She was holding a plastic pitcher half full of tea, her cheeks pink from rushing around, and she grinned when she recognized him, so wide the corners of her eyes crinkled.
She apologized for the tea, swatting at the wet spot on his hoodie with a napkin, and he fumbled to say it was fine, that the hoodie was already half covered in grease and burn marks anyway. The old country band on the small stage cranked up a Johnny Cash song, loud enough that the windows rattled, so she leaned in closer to talk, her shoulder pressing against his bicep, her breath warm against his ear when she said she’d moved back to town two weeks prior, divorced after 28 years of marriage to a real estate agent in Tampa, here to take care of her mom who was in the assisted living facility three miles down the road. He nodded, staring at the scar that ran across her left eyebrow, the one she’d gotten when she’d crashed his old dirt bike when she was 17, and he realized he’d thought about that scar at least once a month for the last 40 years, never admitting it to anyone, not even Linda.
They talked for an hour, leaning against that wall, their plates discarded on the ground next to them, people walking past bumping into them every few minutes so they kept getting pushed closer together. At one point, she reached up to brush a fleck of fried catfish batter off his chin, her fingers grazing his stubble, rough and calloused from working on the cottage she’d bought on the edge of town, and he flinched like he’d been burned. He was torn in half, one part of him buzzing with a heat he hadn’t felt since Linda was alive, the other part sick with guilt, like he was doing something dirty, something that would betray the 34 years he’d spent married to her cousin. He almost made an excuse to leave, almost said he had to feed his dog, even though his dog had died two years prior, until she leaned in again, her voice lower, and said she’d had the biggest crush on him when he was dating Linda, used to make up excuses to come over to their house just to see him working on his truck in the driveway.
He froze, his beer halfway to his mouth, and admitted he’d thought about her too, more times than he could count, but he’d never said a word, never even let himself look at her too long when Linda was around. She smiled, soft this time, not the big teasing grin from earlier, and asked him if he wanted to walk down to the lake, get away from the noise. He hesitated for three full seconds, his mind racing with every stupid rule he’d made for himself after Linda died: no dating, no letting anyone get close, no doing anything that felt like he was moving on, before he nodded.
The gravel path to the lake crunched under their boots, the sun dipping low over the water, painting the sky pink and tangerine, the air sharp enough that she shivered when a gust blew off the water. He pulled his hoodie off, the one with the tea stain on the front, and handed it to her, their fingers brushing when she took it, and she didn’t let go right away, held his hand for a beat, her palm warm against his, before she slipped the hoodie on, the sleeves too long, falling past her wrists. They sat down on a weathered wooden bench half hidden by oak trees, and she told him she’d talked to Linda on the phone a month before she died, that Linda had told her if she ever moved back to town, she needed to look Woody up, said he was too stubborn to ask anyone out on his own, that he hated being lonely even if he’d rather chew glass than admit it.
The knot in his chest loosened all at once, the guilt he’d been carrying for the last hour melting away, because he knew Linda meant it, knew she’d spent the last six months of her life nagging him to go out, to meet someone, to not spend the rest of his life alone. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer, and she rested her head on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft against his neck, the smell of lavender shampoo mixing with the pine from the trees around them. They didn’t talk for 20 minutes, just watched the sun sink below the horizon, the first fireflies blinking to life in the grass at their feet, the distant sound of the band from the VFW fading into the hum of crickets. He reached down, laced his fingers through hers, calloused palm against calloused palm, and didn’t let go.
