Dale Hendricks, 58, retired 18 months prior after 32 years patrolling the Willamette National Forest, leaned against a splintered pine picnic table at the town’s annual fire department beer garden fundraiser, IPA sweating through the paper coozie in his grip. His jeans were still dusted with red cedar sawdust from repairing the split-rail fence around his property that morning, the scar across his left knuckle throbbing faintly where he’d whacked it with a hammer an hour before he’d left. He’d only shown up because his old patrol partner, Jim, had begged, said the department was short on cash for new wildfire gear, and Dale owed them for pulling his ass out of a downed tree blaze back in 2017. Normally he’d have spent the evening hunched over the engine of his 1987 F-150, beer in one hand, wrench in the other, ignoring the texts from his sister asking when he was finally going to “stop moping and go on a date.” He’d spent seven years as a widower, convinced dating after 50 was just sad, performative nonsense for people who couldn’t stand to be alone with their own thoughts. That was his flaw, the one he’d never admit out loud: he was terrified of feeling anything that didn’t revolve around trees or truck parts, terrified of letting anyone get close enough to remind him how much it hurt to lose someone.
“Dale Hendricks. I thought that was you. Jim said he’d drag you here eventually if he had to tie you to the back of his ATV.” Her voice was low, a little rough from years of smoking she’d quit six months prior, he’d heard, and when he looked up she was standing so close he could smell coconut sunscreen, vanilla perfume, and the faint tang of lime from the hard seltzer can in her hand. She leaned in a little more to talk over the band, her hair brushing his cheek, and he had to fight the urge to lean into the contact. “I saw your F-150 parked on the side of Route 12 last week, hood up. I’ve got a 1990 Bronco I’ve been trying to get running for weeks, my ex always handled all the mechanic stuff. I was gonna stop and ask for help, but I figured you’d tell me to get lost.”
He almost did tell her to get lost, out of habit, out of that stupid, lingering guilt that told him he didn’t get to want anything, or anyone, after Claire. Then she reached for the extra napkin he had tucked under his beer can, her hand brushing his scarred left knuckle, and she paused, running her thumb over the raised, pale skin lightly, callus rough from the pottery studio she ran out of the old downtown garage. “Bear?” she asked, referencing the story Claire had told her 30 years prior, about the black bear that had swiped at him when he got too close to her cubs on a patrol. He nodded, and she smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Claire used to tell that story every Christmas. Said you tried to play it off like you weren’t scared, but you came home with your boots untied and your face white as a sheet.”
The band shifted to a slow, syrupy 90s country ballad, couples drifting onto the patchy grass dance floor to sway together, and she tilted her head, hazel eyes flecked with gold glinting in the string light glow. “You dance?” He huffed a laugh, shook his head. “Haven’t danced since my wedding. 32 years ago.” She grabbed his wrist, her grip firm, and pulled him to his feet. They didn’t walk to the dance floor, just stood there by the picnic table, swaying slightly to the music, her hand on his shoulder, his hand hovering over her waist for a full ten seconds before he let it rest, feeling the warm, soft curve of her hip through her thin cotton tank top. She leaned in, her mouth right next to his ear, and he could feel her breath warm against his skin. “I know it’s weird. I know everyone here is staring, I know they’re gonna talk about the widowed ranger and his dead wife’s cousin for weeks. I don’t care. I’ve had a crush on you since I was 19 and came to visit Claire for Christmas, and you spent three hours teaching me how to skip rocks on the lake behind your house. I’ve waited 33 years to say that out loud.”
He froze for half a second, that weird, conflicting pull of disgust at himself for even considering this, the guilt that he was betraying Claire, warring with the warm, tight buzz in his chest he hadn’t felt since he was 26 and had asked Claire to marry him. Then he remembered Claire, laughing one night when they were 30, saying if she ever went first, he better not spend the rest of his life holed up in the woods alone, better find someone who made him laugh, someone who didn’t mind that he smelled like pine and motor oil half the time. The guilt melted away, slow, like ice on a spring afternoon.
They left the beer garden 20 minutes later, no goodbyes, just her slipping her hand into his, calloused palm fitting against his scarred one, as they walked down the main street, the sidewalk still warm under their boots from the day’s heat, crickets chirping in the maple trees lining the road. She stopped when they got to his truck, leaning back against the passenger door, looking up at him, her lips parted, cheeks pink from the seltzer and the cool evening air. He reached out, tucked a loose strand of hair that had fallen out of her braid behind her ear, and kissed her slow, the taste of lime and seltzer on her lips, a group of teens on mountain bikes yelling “Get a room!” as they zoomed past, making them both laugh into the kiss.
He unlocked the passenger door, held it open for her, and she climbed in, setting her half-empty seltzer can in the cupholder, grinning at him as he got in the driver’s side. He turned the key, the old truck rumbling to life, the Johnny Cash tape he’d had stuck in the deck for 15 years clicking on, and she started singing along to Folsom Prison Blues, off-key and loud, as he pulled out onto the road, heading for his house at the edge of the woods, no plans, no overthinking, just the hum of the engine and the weight of her hand on his thigh.
