Silas “Sye” Pritchard, 61, retired high-voltage lineman, had shown up to the VFW fish fry every Friday for 11 years straight, even when his knee ached so bad he had to use a cane, even when the pandemic restricted capacity to 10 people and they served the cod out of a folding table by the back door. His worst flaw was a stubborn refusal to let anyone get close enough to see the parts of him that weren’t rough around the edges: he’d turned down three different neighbors’ offers to bring him soup after his 2022 knee replacement, had blocked his ex-wife’s number after she texted him a birthday greeting last year, and had deliberately avoided Mara Hale for 12 whole years, ever since the night of his best friend Joe’s wake, when they’d gotten drunk on cheap bourbon in the funeral home parking lot and kissed until his lips were chapped.
The VFW smelled like fried cod, white vinegar, and old cigarette smoke that had seeped into the wood paneling 40 years prior, the jukebox in the corner spitting out Johnny Cash deep cuts at a volume just loud enough to drown out the bickering of the old guys playing pool in the back. Sye was third in line for dessert when he caught the scent of coconut lotion over the grease, and his shoulders tensed before he even looked up. Mara was behind the table, silver streaks running through the auburn hair she’d pulled back in a messy bun, her faded green sweater slipping off one shoulder as she leaned across to hand a slice of peach pie to a 92-year-old WWII vet who’d been coming to the fry longer than Sye had been alive. She brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face with the back of her hand, and her gaze locked with his, for half a second she froze, the pie plate halfway between her and the vet, then she smiled, the same crinkles around her eyes he remembered from camping trips with Joe back in 2010.