Ray Voss, 58, retired Forest Service hotshot crew lead, leaned against the dented tailgate of his 2012 F150, one hand curled around a cold IPA, the other holding a smoked brisket taco slathered in habanero sauce. The annual end-of-summer food truck rally hummed around him, asphalt still radiating 82-degree heat through the soles of his scuffed work boots, the low growl of a Tom Petty cover band drifting from the stage at the end of the block, the sharp tang of pickled onions and charcoal cutting through the pine-tinged air. He’d shown up only because his neighbor had begged him to get out of the house, said he was turning into a hermit up at his half-renovated cabin, and he’d been halfway ready to leave 10 minutes before Clara Bennett walked over.
He’d avoided her for 12 years, ever since his falling out with her then-husband Jake, his former crew partner. The fight had been over a 2011 fire line call, Jake blaming Ray for a misaligned cut that almost trapped two rookies, even when the official investigation cleared Ray of error. Jake had never apologized, moved to Arizona 8 years prior, and Ray had carried the guilt of the fight like a stone in his chest ever since, refusing to so much as wave at Clara when he saw her at the grocery store or the library where she worked.
She stopped three feet from his truck, close enough he could smell coconut sunscreen and the cherry seltzer in her plastic cup, gray-streaked auburn hair pulled back in a loose braid, cutoff denim shorts showing freckles that ran all the way down to her calves, a faded 1998 Pearl Jam tour tee stretched tight across her shoulders. She held eye contact for two full beats before she smiled, the same crinkly, unguarded smile he’d remembered from crew barbecues back when their lives were tangled up in fire schedules and post-shift beer runs. “Heard you’re the only guy here who knows which taco truck doesn’t skimp on the brisket,” she said, nodding at the half-eaten taco in his hand.
His first instinct was to brush her off, mumble something noncommittal and climb in his truck. But when she leaned across the tailgate to grab a stack of napkins he’d set out, her bare forearm brushed his, warm and slightly calloused, and he didn’t step back. They talked for 20 minutes first about the taco truck, then about the library’s new used book sale, then about the cabin he’d been renovating six months after his wife Karen died of ovarian cancer seven years prior. He told her about the baby bear that had broken into his screened porch two weeks prior and eaten an entire jar of peanut butter, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, reaching out to tap his forearm, her fingers lingering half a second longer than casual.
The voice in the back of his head screamed that this was wrong, that you didn’t talk to your old partner’s ex-wife no matter how much time had passed, that the small town gossip mill would run wild with this by tomorrow morning. But the louder voice, the one that had been silent for seven years, noticed the way her lip curled when she made fun of the town council’s stupid new parking rules, the way she leaned in when he talked like she actually cared what he had to say, not just making polite small talk with the reclusive retired hotshot everyone knew but no one really talked to.
She brought up Jake unprompted, 10 minutes later, twisting the cap of her seltzer bottle between her fingers. “He called last month,” she said, soft enough no one passing by could hear. “Said he finally pulled the old radio logs from that 2011 fire. He messed up the coordinates, not you. Said he’s sorry he let his ego ruin a 20 year friendship. Told me to tell you if I saw you.” She paused, tilting her head, her eyes dark in the golden hour light. “We finalized our divorce three years ago, for what it’s worth. He’s remarried down in Tucson, has two little kids. No hard feelings on either side.”
The stone in Ray’s chest cracked, then crumbled entirely. He’d spent 12 years hating himself for a mistake he never made, cutting off anyone tied to that part of his life out of some misplaced sense of loyalty to a man who’d never bothered to fact check his own anger. He offered her the last bite of his taco, and she took it, her lips brushing the edge of the foil he was holding, a streak of orange sauce smudging her lower lip. He didn’t stop himself this time, reaching up with his thumb to wipe it off, his skin brushing hers, and she didn’t flinch.
The crowd around them thinned as the sun dipped below the mountains, the air cooling fast enough he could see his breath when he exhaled. He asked her if she wanted to ride up to the cabin, see the bookshelf he’d built that was still half empty, filled with nothing but old western paperbacks and fire safety manuals. She nodded, grabbing her bag off the ground, and he held the passenger door open for her, the scent of her sunscreen clinging to the cab when she climbed in.
He rolled the windows down as he pulled onto the highway leading up the mountain, pine air rushing in, the radio playing a deep cut Tom Petty track he hadn’t heard in years. She sang along under her breath, her hand resting on the center console an inch away from his, and when he stopped at the stop sign at the edge of the national forest, he reached over, laced his fingers through hers, and she squeezed back.
