They talk for 45 minutes, the crowd around them thinning as the sun dips below the treeline. She teases him about the time he showed up to Diane’s 21st birthday party covered in mud from fixing a downed power line mid-party, he teases her about the time she tried to sneak a six pack into the county fair and got caught by the sheriff. She laughs loud, head tilted back, and he can’t stop staring at the way the corner of her mouth crinkles when she smiles. When a fat raindrop hits his cheek, he looks up, and the sky opens up all at once, cold rain pouring down so hard he can barely see the food tents 20 feet away.
“Car’s parked six blocks over,” she yells over the sound of the rain, holding her jacket over her head. “Got here late, all the close spots were taken.” He nods, grabs his keys off his belt loop, and unlocks the truck. They climb inside, shaking rain off their sleeves, the radio tuned to the classic rock station he leaves it on, Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin” playing low through the blown speakers. The rain drums so hard on the roof it drowns out most of the noise from the cookoff. She leans over to adjust the AC vent by the steering wheel, and her shoulder presses flat against his chest for three full seconds before she pulls back, and he can feel the steady thud of her heart through her tee shirt.