Moe Petrov, 62, retired wildland fire crew boss, leans against the splintered edge of a pine picnic table at the town’s weekly beer garden, his boots planted ankle-deep in clover that smells like cut grass and rain from that afternoon’s thunderstorm. He’d dragged himself here only because his former crew lead begged, said the new batch of seasonal firefighters wanted to pick his brain about the 2012 Sawtooth blaze, but the kids had scattered an hour earlier to chase food trucks and cheap shots at the bar down the street, leaving him with a half-drunk hazy IPA and the low twang of a bluegrass trio playing off to the side. He’s halfway to deciding he can slip out without anyone noticing when a woman’s voice, low and warm, cuts through the hum of the crowd.
He looks up, and for half a second he thinks he’s misremembering. It’s Lila Marlow, his late wife’s younger cousin, the one who’d shown up to the funeral with a jar of his wife’s favorite dill pickles and a black eye from a pottery wheel accident, who he hasn’t seen in eight years. She’s softer around the edges now, silver streaked through the dark brown of her hair that’s pulled back in a messy braid, a pinecone tattoo peeking out from the cuff of her linen shirt, the exact same design Moe got inked on his ribs the year his wife beat stage 1 breast cancer. She steps closer, and the scent of jasmine lotion and damp clay hits him, sharp and familiar, before she wraps her arms around his shoulders in a quick, warm hug. Her palm presses flat against the worn Carhartt logo on his chest, and he freezes for half a beat, his hands hovering an inch above her waist before he pats her back once, awkward.
She laughs, pulls back, and slides onto the bench next to him without asking, their knees knocking when she shifts to face him. “Heard you were still hiding out up in that cabin off the mountain,” she says, nodding at the scuffed steel-toe boots he’s had resoled three times, the same pair he wore to his wedding. “Figured I’d track you down eventually. I moved into that old cottage on Main Street last month, opening a pottery studio where the old feed store used to be.”
Moe’s throat goes tight. For eight years, he’s avoided any hint of something like this, told himself even looking at another woman was a betrayal of the 27 years he had with his wife, that he owed it to her to spend the rest of his days alone, fixing up old fire trucks and volunteering at the local station, no distractions, no softness. He shifts a little away from her, his elbow brushing the side of her beer when he reaches for his own, and he flinches like he’s been burned.
Lila doesn’t push. She just sips her sour ale, tells him stories about her cross-country drive to Idaho, about the pottery classes she’s going to offer for kids from the local reservation, about how his wife used to call her twice a year, begging her to move out west, saying Moe needed someone to yank him out of his own head every once in a while. She leans in when he tells her about the 1998 blaze that almost took his crew, her knee pressing solidly against his now, no space between them, her eyes locked on his like she actually cares about the details, not just humoring him. When a group of rowdy teens runs past, slamming into the side of the table, she grabs his forearm to steady herself, her fingers rough from kneading clay, and he doesn’t pull away.
By the time the bluegrass trio packs up their gear, the sun is dipping below the mountains, painting the sky pink and tangerine, and the beer garden is starting to empty out. Lila nods toward the creek that runs behind the park, and he follows her without thinking, the gravel crunching under their boots, the sound of crickets chirping loud in the grass. She stops on a flat, sun-warmed rock at the edge of the water, and he stands next to her, so close his shoulder brushes hers when he breathes.
“Your wife told me, two weeks before the car crash,” Lila says, soft, like she’s afraid to break the quiet. “Said if anything ever happened to her, she didn’t want you to spend the rest of your life acting like you were in mourning forever. Said you were too stubborn to figure that out on your own, so she made me promise to tell you if I ever ran into you again.”
Moe’s chest feels like it’s splitting open. He’d spent years angry, angry at the drunk driver that hit her, angry at himself for not being there, angry at anyone who tried to tell him he deserved to be happy again. He looks down at Lila, at the silver streaks in her hair, at the pinecone tattoo on her wrist, at the way she’s looking at him like she knows exactly how heavy that weight he’s been carrying is. He lifts his hand, brushes a pine needle off the top of her shoulder, his fingers lingering on the soft skin of her upper arm for a second longer than he should.
She tilts her face up to him, and he kisses her slow, no hurry, no guilt, the taste of sour ale and jasmine on her tongue, the cool breeze off the creek blowing strands of her hair against his cheek. When they pull back, she laughs, quiet, and sits down on the rock, patting the spot next to her. He sits, and she leans her head on his shoulder, tangling her fingers with his, the calluses on her hands matching the ones on his from decades of wrenching on fire trucks and swinging axes.
He reaches into the back pocket of his work pants, pulls out the faded fire department hoodie he always keeps stuffed there, and wraps it around her shoulders, the fabric still warm from sitting against his leg all night. She snuggles closer, and he can hear the water gurgling over the smooth rocks in the creek, the distant sound of a country song playing from a truck driving down the main road, the steady thump of her heart against his arm. He squeezes her hand once, slow, and doesn’t let go when a gust of cool mountain wind rolls through the pines.
