He’s mid-sip when he catches her staring. Mara Bennett, 56, part-time library archivist, ex-wife of his old patrol partner Jake, is leaning against the raffle table 10 feet away, a stack of ticket stubs in one hand, a half-empty seltzer in the other. Her auburn hair has more silver streaks than he remembers, pulled back in a loose braid that falls over the shoulder of her linen sunflower dress, the hem brushing the top of her scuffed work boots. She doesn’t look away when he meets her eye, just lifts her seltzer in a tiny toast, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
He freezes for half a second, then nods back. He’s spent 12 years telling himself she’s off-limits, that even looking at her too long is a betrayal of the old crew, even after Jake left her for a 28-year-old park intern two years after the falling out that got Cole transferred, that got Jake fired. The last time he saw her was at the ranger station Christmas party in 2010, before the fight, before his wife got sick, before everything shrank down to just him and his cabin and the 20 acres of woods he lives on outside town.
She pushes off the raffle table and walks over, her boots crunching the mulch, the edge of her dress brushing his bare calf when she stops right next to his table, close enough he can smell lavender hand lotion mixed with the faint smoke of the grill. “Figured that was you,” she says, her voice a little rougher than he remembers, like she’s been singing along to the band too loud. “Heard you moved back last year. You’ve been avoiding everyone.”
He grunts, wiping the condensation from his hand on the leg of his worn work jeans. “Not avoiding. Just don’t care for crowds.” He’s hyper-aware of the gap between their arms, less than an inch, the heat rolling off her skin. He hasn’t been this close to a woman who isn’t a cashier at the grocery store in seven years, and the part of him that’s spent all that time telling himself dating after 50 is pathetic, that messing with Jake’s ex is low, is screaming so loud he almost misses it when she laughs.
“Bullshit,” she says, and taps his forearm with her index finger, her calloused skin catching on the frayed edge of his flannel shirt sleeve. The touch sends a jolt up his arm, sharp and warm, and he has to fight not to flinch. “You’ve been hiding because you still hold that grudge against Jake. Newsflash: everyone knew he messed up that 2011 fire call. Everyone knew you were the one who tried to pull the crew out before the wind shifted. I left him six months after he got fired, for the record. I’m not ‘his’ anything, haven’t been for a long time.”
He blinks, the half-formed retort he was gonna give dying in his throat. He’d spent 12 years assuming everyone thought he was the one who ratted Jake out, that everyone took Jake’s side. He shifts his weight, his thigh brushing hers accidentally, and neither of them moves away. The band switches to a slow, twangy 90s country track, the kind his wife used to play when they were first dating, and couples start drifting onto the patch of grass marked off as a dance floor.
Mara tilts her head, her eyes glinting in the golden hour sun, and bites the corner of her lower lip, the same nervous habit she had back when they were all working 12 hour shifts during wildfire season. “You still dance as bad as you did at the 2008 Christmas party?” she asks, nodding toward the dance floor.
He snorts, pushing off the picnic table, his shoulder brushing hers when he stands. “Worse. I haven’t danced since my wife’s funeral.” It’s a heavy line, too honest, but she doesn’t flinch, just slips her hand into his, her palm warm and rough from tending to the community garden she runs on the weekends. He puts his other hand on her waist when they step onto the grass, his fingers brushing the bare skin above the waistband of her dress, and she leans in a little, her chest almost touching his, the scent of lavender stronger now.
“I’m sorry about Clara,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear, her breath warm against his ear. “I brought food over to your place a few months after she died. You didn’t answer the door. I left it on the porch.”
He freezes mid-step, his hand tightening on her waist. He’d thought that casserole was from the neighbor lady down the road. He’d eaten it for three nights straight, cried into the last serving because it tasted like the ones his mom used to make. “That was you?” he says, his voice rougher than he means it to be.
She nods, pulling back a little to look him in the eye, her thumb brushing the back of his hand. “I’ve always thought you got a raw deal, Cole. From the service, from Jake, from life. I’ve been wanting to tell you that for 12 years.”
The last of the stupid, stubborn resistance he’s been clinging to melts away, the old guilt about wanting her, about thinking she was off-limits, feeling dumber by the second. He’s spent so long clinging to grudges and grief that he forgot what it feels like to be seen, to have someone remember the things he thought no one did. The song ends, and the crowd around them cheers, but he doesn’t let go of her hand.
They walk out of the beer garden 20 minutes later, his hand on the small of her back, the cool evening air biting at his arms. He leads her to his beat-up 2007 Ford F-150, the one with the scratch down the passenger door from a falling cedar during the 2011 fire, the one he refused to fix even when everyone told him to get a new truck. She pauses before she climbs in, running her finger along that scratch, a small smile on her face. “I remember you complaining about this for months,” she says. “Said you were gonna charge Jake for the damage.”
He smirks, opening the passenger door for her, the sound of the band drifting over the parking lot behind them. “Got a bottle of 12 year old bourbon back at the cabin I’ve been saving for no good reason. Wanna help me drink it?”
She nods, climbing into the seat, her dress riding up a little on her thighs when she shifts to get comfortable. He closes the door behind her, pausing for half a second to look up at the pink and orange streaks painting the sky, the weight he’s carried on his shoulders for 12 years feeling lighter than it has in as long as he can remember. He turns, boots crunching on the gravel parking lot, and walks around to the driver’s side.
