Clay Bennett, 58, retired lineman for the Auglaize County electric co-op, leans against a splintered picnic table at the annual fire department BBQ, foam koozie wrapped around a cheap lager, the scar across his left forearm throbbing a little in the humidity. The scar’s from 2019, when he spent 14 hours repairing downed lines during the tornado that took out half the west side of town, and he still taps it when he’s annoyed, which is most days these days. He’s avoided every town event for three months, ever since he yelled at the new public health nurse for making him wear a mask to get his shingles shot, and he only showed up tonight because his buddy Jim begged him to help man the beer tent, and Jim owed him a favor for fixing his transmission last winter. The air reeks of charcoal and smoked brisket, the country cover band off to the left is butchering a Luke Combs track, and half the town’s already three deep at the bar, yelling over each other about corn prices and the upcoming school board election.
He’s mid-eye roll at a guy complaining about the new bike lanes when he sees her. Mara Carter, 52, the nurse in question, is walking toward him holding a paper plate heaped high with brisket and coleslaw, white sneakers caked with mud from the wet grass, a smudge of barbecue sauce on the corner of her mouth. Her boot catches on a loose edge of the picnic table bench when she’s two feet away, and she stumbles, her palm slapping against his bicep to catch her balance. He can feel the heat of her hand through the thin cotton of his rolled-up flannel, smells coconut sunscreen and the faint sweet tang of cherry pie on her breath when she laughs, the sound bright enough to cut through the band’s noise. She holds eye contact for two full beats longer than polite, swiping a strand of gray-streaked auburn hair behind her ear before she pulls her hand away, apologizing for nearly taking him out with her terrible sense of coordination.