Rafe Marquez, 62, retired wildfire hotshot crew supervisor, has held the same grudge for 11 years, and he’s not the type to let go easy. His left shoulder still aches from the 2021 Bootleg Fire, a scar jagged across his jaw matching the nick in the metal spatula he’s been using to flip burgers at the annual county fire department fundraiser all afternoon. The August sun beats down on the back patio of The Rusty Spur, the beer in his coozie sweating through to stain the thigh of his worn Carhartt shorts, the air thick with hickory smoke and the sound of old men arguing about high school football scores from 1987.
He spots her the second she walks through the gate. Lila Herrera, 48, his late wife Clara’s younger cousin, the woman he’d written off entirely after she bailed on sitting with Clara during her third round of chemo, claiming she had a last-minute work trip out of state. She’s in cutoff jean shorts that show the constellation of freckles across her thighs, a faded Tom Petty tee tucked into the waistband, scuffed leather sandals on her feet, sun streaks bleached into her dark wavy hair. He freezes mid-spatula flip, a burger patty sliding off onto the grill edge, and he curses under his breath. He’d checked the guest list twice to make sure she wasn’t coming, or so he’d thought.
She makes a beeline straight for the grill, like she knows exactly where he’ll be, and stops so close he can smell the coconut sunscreen she’s slathered on and the vanilla bean perfume Clara used to gift her every Christmas for her birthday. “Hey, Rafe,” she says, her voice the same rough, smoky drawl he remembers from family barbeques 20 years ago, when she’d show up with a six pack of craft beer and make fun of him for drinking cheap domestic. He grunts, doesn’t meet her eye, prods the charred edge of the dropped patty with his spatula. She laughs, soft, and reaches for a stack of paper plates sitting on the folding table next to him at the exact same second he does. Their hands brush, calloused palm to calloused palm, and he yanks his hand back like he’s touched a live wire, his face heating up for the first time in years.
“Look, I know you’re still mad about the chemo day,” she says, leaning her hip against the table, close enough that her bare arm brushes his bicep when she shifts her weight. He finally looks up at her, and notices the thin, pale scar curving above her right breast, peeking out of the neck of her tee, the one he’s never seen before. “I didn’t go on a work trip. I was in Portland, getting a consult for a double mastectomy. Found a lump two days before. Didn’t want to dump that on Clara when she was already going through hell. So I lied.”
Rafe’s throat goes dry. He’d spent 11 years thinking she was selfish, that she’d chosen a work conference over the cousin she claimed to love like a sister, had turned down every invitation to family events she was at, had talked shit about her to his friends over beers more times than he can count. He feels like an idiot, the anger he’s carried around for a decade melting so fast it makes his head spin. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but no words come out.
She nods like she knows exactly what he’s thinking, and jerks her head toward the gnarled oak tree at the edge of the patio, out of earshot of the rest of the crowd. He follows her, his bad shoulder throbbing a little, his boots crunching on the loose gravel. She leans against the tree trunk, crossing her ankles, and looks up at him, her dark eyes glinting in the dappled sunlight. “Clara knew, by the way. I told her right before she died. Made me promise not to tell you, said you’d carry the guilt forever if you knew how mad you’d been at me for no reason.” She pauses, bites her lower lip, the way she used to when she was nervous as a kid. “Also? I’ve had a crush on you since I was 19. Never said anything, obviously. She was my favorite person. But I figured I owed you the truth, now that enough time’s passed.”
Rafe stares at her, his heart hammering in his chest, something warm and sharp unfurling in his gut he hasn’t felt since Clara got sick. He steps closer, close enough that he can see the little gold flecks in her brown eyes, the faint laugh lines around her mouth, the way she twists the silver ring on her index finger that Clara gave her for her 21st birthday. He doesn’t say anything, just reaches up, brushes a stray strand of hair off her forehead, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her cheek. She doesn’t pull away, just leans into the touch a little, her breath catching soft enough that only he can hear it.
They stand there for three minutes, maybe five, not talking, while the sound of the fundraiser fades into background noise. Finally, she smirks, and shoves his shoulder gently, the same way she used to when she’d beat him at cornhole at family picnics. “I’m not asking you to marry me, hotshot. Just buy me a coffee tomorrow morning. We can talk about Clara, or wildfires, or how stupid you were for holding that grudge for 11 years. No pressure.”
He nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the first real one he’s had in months. She picks up the burger he’d set aside for her off the table, winks, and walks back over to her group of friends, glancing over her shoulder once to make sure he’s still watching. He leans against the grill, takes a long sip of his now-warm beer, and watches her laugh at something her friend says, throwing her head back, the sunlight catching the silver streaks in her hair. His bad shoulder doesn’t ache as bad anymore, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, he doesn’t dread waking up early the next day.
