Rafe Ortega, 62, retired wildland fire crew supervisor, had to be dragged to the Hood River fire department’s annual summer fundraiser by three of his old crew guys, all of whom kept ribbing him about hiding out in his riverside cabin like a hermit. He’d protested the whole drive over, griping that he hated small talk, hated strangers asking about the scar slashing across his left cheek, hated the way people’s faces softened when they remembered his wife Linda had died eight years prior. He’d planned to stay for one beer, slip out before anyone could corner him into talking about his feelings.
The beer garden strung with fairy lights smelled like charred bratwurst, pine smoke from the fire pit tucked by the oak tree, and cheap lager that tasted better out of a dented can than any craft pour he’d ever tried. He leaned against a splintered pine picnic table, boots propped on the lower crossbar, worn Nomex jacket unzipped over a faded John Prine tee, and was just reaching for his keys when he spotted her.
She spotted him before he could duck behind the guy selling raffle tickets, and her grin widened, the little crinkle at the corner of her eye exactly the same as he remembered. She wove through the crowd, stopped right next to him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his bicep through the jacket, and he could smell lavender hand lotion mixed with the faint hoppy scent of the beer in her hand. “I thought they were lying when they said you finally crawled out of that cabin,” she said, holding out one of the IPAs, her fingers brushing his when he took it. His own hands were calloused from sanding the drift boat he’d been restoring in his garage for three years, hers rough at the fingertips from turning thousands of book pages over the years.
He grunted, took a sip of the beer, surprised at how easy it was to talk to her. She teased him about still wearing that beat-up Nomex jacket, the one he’d had since the 2017 Eagle Creek fire, and he found himself telling her about the time a falling tree branch had ripped a hole in the sleeve, how he’d sewed it back up himself with fishing line because he couldn’t bear to throw it out. She leaned in when he talked, head tilted, holding his gaze so long he had to look away for a second, his ears hot. He kept waiting for that familiar twist of guilt in his chest, the one that hit every time a stranger had tried to flirt with him at the grocery store, but it never came. Instead, he felt light, like the weight he’d been carrying around for eight years had lifted just a little.
The band wrapped up their set a little after 10, the crowd thinning out as people herded their kids to minivans, folding up lawn chairs and stacking empty beer cans in recycling bins. The air had cooled, crickets chirping loud in the grass along the edge of the park, the sky dark enough that you could see the first stars peeking through the cloud cover. Clara tucked her hands in the pockets of her flannel shirt, shifted her weight so her hip was pressed against his, and said she had a first edition Zane Grey she’d picked up at an estate sale the month before, knew he’d loved those books back when they were on fire crews together. “Wanna come up to the store to see it? I live in the apartment above. Got fresh baked peach pie in the fridge too, if you’re hungry.”
Rafe hesitated. He could hear the old rules rattling around in his head: you don’t go home with your old buddy’s ex, you don’t let anyone get close enough to see how broken you still feel over Linda, you don’t do things that make you feel vulnerable. He looked at Clara, the fairy light glow gilding the edge of her hair, the way she was worrying her lower lip like she was nervous he’d say no, and every one of those rules felt stupid, trivial, like something he’d made up to punish himself for something that wasn’t his fault. “Yeah,” he said, surprising even himself. “I’d like that.”
They walked down the main street, shoulder to shoulder, their hands brushing every few steps before Rafe reached over, laced his fingers through hers, and she squeezed tight, like she’d been waiting for him to do it. The sidewalk was still warm from the day’s sun, the sound of the Columbia River rushing a low hum in the distance, no cars passing at that hour. She stopped in front of the bookstore, the hand-painted “Page Turners” sign hanging above the door, fumbled for her keys in her pocket, and pulled him inside after her, the smell of old paper and leather binding wrapping around them the second the door opened. He let the door click shut behind him, the noise of the town fading out, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel like he was running from anything.
