Clay Hargrove, 57, retired power lineman, leans against a splintered pine picnic table at the annual township fire department carnival, sweat beading at the edge of his faded Steelers cap. His left forearm bears a thick, silvery scar from the 2018 ice storm, when he’d hung off a 40-foot pole for eight hours in -2 degree windchill to get the local nursing home’s power back online. For 12 years, he’s avoided anyone connected to his ex-wife, who left him for a Tesla-driving luxury realtor in 2011, convinced every last one of her relatives thought he was a dumb, blue-collar schmuck who hadn’t been good enough for her. It’s his only real flaw, this stubborn, defensive grudge he’s carried so long it’s started to feel like a second skin.
He’s halfway through his second Yuengling, watching a group of teen boys argue over a cornhole score, when she steps up to the table. Her name tag reads MARA, the last name scrawled underneath the same as his ex’s, and he tenses, already moving to stand and leave before she meets his eye and grins. She’s 42, he figures, with sun-bleached auburn hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, a tiny silver nose ring, and chipped pale blue polish on her nails. He’d only met her once, at his wedding 22 years prior, when she was 20, waiting tables to put herself through nursing school, so quiet she’d barely said two words to him all night.