Rudy Marquez, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, has spent the last 8 years clinging so tightly to his routine he’s shut out every chance at new connection, convinced letting anyone in would be a betrayal of his late wife Karen, who died of ovarian cancer in 2015. He only showed up to the town’s annual summer beer garden tonight because his 11-year-old granddaughter Lila begged him to be in the audience for her first pie baking contest entry. She won second place, left an hour ago with his daughter to go to a sleepover, so he’s been parked at a splintered pine picnic table ever since, nursing a cold Spotted Cow, sawdust still caked in the cuff of his worn Carhartt jeans from patching a broken bleacher before the event started.
The air smells like charred bratwurst, cut grass, and the sweet, sticky perfume of the cherry trees lining the park perimeter. String lights crisscross over the picnic area, fireflies blink low to the ground near the port-a-potties. All the other tables are packed when she slides onto the bench across from him, balancing a paper plate of peach pie and a glass of hard seltzer in one hand, a canvas tote slung over her shoulder emblazoned with the town library logo. Her strappy leather sandal brushes the toe of his work boot when she tucks her legs under the table, and she mumbles an apology, eyes crinkling at the corners when he waves it off.