Clay Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service ranger, leans against the dented tailgate of his 2012 F-150, swiping condensation from his IPA can with the heel of his calloused hand. He spent 27 years patrolling the Bitterroot Range, slept in snow caves for weeks at a time, dealt with grizzlies and wildfires and drunk campers who thought they could outrun an avalanche, but the one thing he still can’t stand is neighborhood small talk. He only showed up to the annual West Boise block party because his daughter begged him, said his 7-year-old granddaughter wanted to show him the sparkler she made at day camp. His flaw is obvious to anyone who spends five minutes with him: he holds petty grudges like they’re prize trout, still sharp and bitter 12 years after his wife left him for a Boise real estate agent who wore loafers without socks. He’s spent the last six months actively avoiding Margaret Hale, the 54-year-old new HOA president who made him cut 3 inches off his cedar fence to meet neighborhood code.
The air sticks to his skin, 92 degrees with no breeze, the acrid tang of lighter fluid mixing with the sweet smell of grilled peach cobbler on the community table. He spots Margaret across the lawn, arguing with Mr. Henderson from down the block, who taped three school levy signs to his mailbox in violation of HOA rules. She’s in a frayed pale blue linen sundress, silver hoop earrings catching the late afternoon sun, sweat beading at the base of her neck where dark hair is pulled back in a loose bun. She catches him staring, holds eye contact for three full beats, not the polite half-second most people do, before she raises an eyebrow like she’s daring him to make a snarky comment about the fight. Then she walks over, sandals crunching on the patchy front lawn.
She leans against the truck next to him, her hip brushing his bicep for half a second before she shifts her weight. They exchange the expected snark first: she teases him about still wearing his scuffed Forest Service hat even when he’s not hiking, he teases her about fining old Mrs. Peabody $25 last month for leaving her bird feeder too close to the sidewalk. A toddler on a tricycle slams into her ankle, she stumbles, reaching out to steady herself on the truck bed at the same time he moves to catch her. Their fingers brush, he feels the thick callus on her index finger, asks if she gardens. She laughs, says she grows heirloom roses, won a city beautification award last year, and he admits he’s noticed the bushes lining her front walk, thought they looked damn good even if he’d never said so out loud.
They drift away from the crowd, over to his side yard to look at the fence he had to trim back in March. She snorts when she sees it, says the old holdover HOA board made her enforce the rule, she thought the 3-inch violation was ridiculous, actually preferred the original height because it blocked the streetlight from shining into her bedroom window. He leans against the rough cedar slats, she stands so close her shoulder presses against his, and he can smell jasmine shampoo and dry rosé on her breath, the faint coconut tang of the sunscreen she slathered on that morning. For half a minute he fights the urge to tuck the strand of hair that’s fallen loose from her bun behind her ear, tells himself he’s being an idiot, she’s the rule-obsessed HOA president he’s complained about to his fishing buddies a dozen times, he hasn’t so much as held a woman’s hand in 8 years.
A bottle rocket zips past their heads, lit wrong by some teen who snuck a pack of fireworks in his backpack, and cracks loud 10 feet above the fence line. She yelps, jumping into his arms automatically, legs wrapping around his waist for half a second before she registers what she’s doing, but she doesn’t pull away. Her face is two inches from his, he can see flecks of gold in her warm brown eyes, her breath fanning warm against his mouth. “I’ve wanted to do this since you yelled at me during my first HOA meeting,” she says, and kisses him slow, no rush, her hand cupping his jaw, thumb brushing the thin scar on his left cheek from a pine branch that hit him on a 2019 patrol. He tastes the dry rosé on her tongue, the faint sweetness of the cherry pie she ate earlier, his hand resting light on her lower back, the linen of her dress thin enough he can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric, the faint ridge of the appendectomy scar she mentioned at a board meeting last spring.
Someone yells her name from the main lawn, and she pulls away, grinning, wiping a smudge of IPA from her lower lip with her thumb. She says she’s got a bottle of 12-year bourbon on her kitchen counter, no HOA talk, no nosy neighbors, no stupid rules, if he wants to come over. He nods, grabbing his keys off the truck’s tailgate hook, not even bothering to track down his daughter to say he’s bailing early; she’ll understand. She walks ahead of him down the sidewalk, the setting sun gilding the silver strands streaked through her dark hair, the roar of the block party fading behind them, faint smoke from the rogue firework still hanging light in the summer air. When she reaches back to lace her fingers through his as they cross the quiet residential street, he doesn’t even think to pull away.
