Clay Bennett, 58, retired wildfire crew lead with 32 years on the line with the U.S. Forest Service, wiped sweat from his brow with the frayed cuff of his work shirt, the fabric stiff with old ash and the faint, sharp smell of pine. The beer tent at Maplewood’s annual summer street fair hummed around him, sticky with spilled pilsner, the air thick with the greasy, savory scent of grilled bratwurst from the stand next door and the sweet, burnt tang of cotton candy drifting from the midway. He’d argued with the new mayor, Mara Carter, two weeks prior at a packed town hall, called her a “desk-bound coastal transplant who never stepped foot in a burn zone” to her face when she announced plans to close 12 miles of backcountry forest roads for a species conservation project. Half the guys he volunteered with at the local fire station had signed the recall petition floating around the feed store that week, and he’d scrawled his name right at the top.
He was handing a frosty cup to a local rancher when he spotted her walking toward the tent, and he almost dropped the can he was holding. She wasn’t wearing the tailored blazer and slacks he’d only ever seen her in, the ones that made her look like she’d rather be in a Portland boardroom than a town with one stop sign. She had on faded high-waisted jeans, scuffed white sneakers, and a threadbare 1998 Pearl Jam tour tee, copper streaks in her auburn hair catching the late afternoon sun, freckles dusting her nose that he’d never noticed before. She leaned her hip against the beer tent counter, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a smirk that made his chest feel tight for a reason he couldn’t explain. “Figured you’d be the one slinging beer today,” she said, her voice loud enough to cut through the Johnny Cash cover band playing 20 feet away. “You’ve got the perfect gruff demeanor for it.”
He grunted, popping the top on a pilsner and sliding it across the counter to her, their elbows brushing when she reached for it. He smelled jasmine and citrus on her skin, not the fancy, cloying perfume he’d expected from someone who’d spent the last decade working in city government. “Didn’t think you’d show your face around here after half the town walked out of your town hall last week,” he said, half teasing, half still sharp with the frustration he’d carried since that meeting. She took a long sip of beer, laughing when a group of teen kids ran past screaming, chasing each other with water guns. “My grandma lived three blocks from here,” she said, leaning in a little closer so he could hear her, her knee brushing his under the counter. “I snuck beers from this exact tent when I was 17. You caught me, actually. Gave me a root beer instead, said you’d tell my grandma if you saw me trying it again. Don’t you remember?”
He did, suddenly, the memory hitting him like a fist to the chest. He was 29 then, still new to the area, working the beer tent that year too, had caught a lanky, red-headed kid with a nose ring trying to slip a can into her backpack. He’d given her a root beer, made her laugh when he told her his own mom would’ve tanned his hide if he’d let a kid under 21 walk away with beer. He’d forgotten that was her, until that second. The frustration he’d carried for two weeks softened, just a little, and he found himself leaning in too, telling her about the time a black bear stole a cooler full of craft beer from his fire crew when they were stationed outside Bend a few years back, how the bear had passed out under a pine tree surrounded by empty cans. She laughed so hard she snort-laughed, wiping beer foam off her chin with the back of her hand, and he felt a warmth he hadn’t felt since his wife left him 12 years prior, the kind he’d convinced himself he’d never feel again.
She told him the road closure was only temporary, that she’d locked down a grant to pave the remaining 8 miles of access road to the popular backcountry trailheads, that she hadn’t been able to announce it until the funding was finalized the day before. He felt stupid, hot with embarrassment for judging her so fast, for signing that stupid petition without asking her any questions first. That was his flaw, always had been: he judged people on first impressions, held grudges like they were something to be proud of, shut everyone out so he wouldn’t have to deal with the risk of being let down. He’d spent 12 years sleeping alone, eating frozen dinners in his cabin, only talking to his old crew when they’d come through town, convinced that was all he needed. But as he stood there, listening to her talk about the trail plans, her shoulder brushing his every time someone squeezed past the tent entrance, he knew he’d been wrong.
They walked to his beat up 2008 Ford F150 parked two blocks over, the sidewalk still warm under his work boots, the faint sound of crickets starting to chirp in the trees. He opened the passenger door for her, and she paused before climbing in, tapping the faded U.S. Forest Service sticker on the window with her finger. “I always thought that sticker was cool,” she said, “even when you were yelling at me.” He closed the door behind her once she settled into the seat, walked around to the driver’s side, climbed in, and turned the key in the ignition. The radio flickered on, playing a deep cut Johnny Cash track he hadn’t heard since he was a kid, and he reached across the center console to turn the air conditioning up, his hand brushing hers where it rested on the seat between them.
