Dale Rainer, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service firefighter, has spent the last eight years hiding in plain sight. Widowed after his wife Linda’s sudden stroke, his defining flaw is a stubborn, unearned loyalty to a life that no longer exists—he still sleeps on his side of the king bed, still buys her favorite lemon drops at the grocery store every week, still turns down every set-up his sister shoves his way, convinced any new connection would be a betrayal. When his old crew chief begged him to man the beer tap at the fire department’s annual summer farmers market fundraiser, he couldn’t say no, even though he hates crowds, hates small talk, hates the way people look at him like he’s a half-broken ghost. The last of the afternoon crowd filters out as the sun bleeds orange over the oak trees lining the park edge, and he wipes sticky IPA residue off the Formica counter, the faint tang of grilled bratwurst and cut clover hanging thick in the warm air. The bluegrass trio on the small stage wraps up their last set, fiddles whining soft and slow enough that the sound settles in his chest like an old memory.
He doesn’t see her approach until she sets a mason jar of deep purple jam on the counter between them, the glass still warm from being tucked in her canvas tote. Clara Bennett, 54, runs the native plant booth at the market, ex-wife of his old crew partner Jax, who left her for a whitewater rafting guide in Idaho 12 years prior. Dale has spoken less than 20 words to her in the last decade, always operating under an unspoken bro code that marked her as off-limits, even after Jax cut ties with the entire crew and moved across the country. She’s wearing faded canvas overalls rolled up to her calves, a streak of charcoal gray cutting through the dark brown hair pulled back in a frayed braid, dirt crusted under the edges of her fingernails, sun freckles dotted across her nose that he doesn’t remember being there the last time they spoke. She leans in, elbows propped on the counter, close enough that he can smell lavender soap and crushed mint on her shirt, her shoulder brushing his bicep when she nods at the stainless steel tap behind him. “Figured you’d be the one stuck doing the grunt work. Still can’t say no to Chief, huh?”
He fumbles the wet rag he’s holding, drops it on the sticky splintered floor, heat crawling up the back of his neck so fast it makes his ears tingle. He mumbles a greeting, grabs the jam, twists it in his hand—the label is handwritten in loopy cursive, wild blackberry, picked last weekend up on the north ridge. He’d forgotten he’d driven up to her place back in February, chain sawed the 60-foot fir that fell across her driveway in the ice storm, didn’t even stop for coffee after, just waved and peeled out, too nervous to hang around, too worried a neighbor would spot him and spread gossip that he was poking around Jax’s ex. She teases him about that, says she tried to flag him down to pay him and he hauled ass like he was running from a Class 3 wildfire. He laughs, short and rough, admits he was being an idiot, always has been around people he doesn’t know how to talk to. She holds eye contact longer than she should, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half smile, and he can’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that, like he’s not just the quiet widowed guy who fixes stuff for free and leaves before anyone can thank him.
The 19-year-old volunteer running the cash box slings his backpack over his shoulder, yells that he’s locking up the float, tells Dale he can take the last two cold IPAs from the back cooler and lock the chain link gate when he’s done, no need to stick around for cleanup. The bluegrass trio packs up their instruments, and the only sounds left are crickets chirping in the tall grass at the park edge, the distant rumble of a pickup driving down Main Street, the faint clink of mason jars from surrounding booths being packed away for the night. She steps around the counter, sits on the cracked vinyl stool next to him, their knees brushing when she shifts to reach for the beer he pops open for her, rough denim rubbing against his worn work pants. He’s still wearing his plain silver wedding band, twists it back and forth on his finger, a nervous habit he picked up the week Linda got diagnosed with high blood pressure. She taps the band with her index finger, calloused from digging holes for oak saplings and prying invasive blackberry bushes out by the root, and says, “You know you don’t have to keep punishing yourself for her being gone, right?”
The words hit him like a fist to the chest, hard enough that he has to blink back the burn in his eyes. For eight years he’s told himself he’s being loyal, that dating anyone else would be cheating, that he’s better off alone with his dog and his old pickup and his stack of 90s Western DVDs. But he’s lonely, god he’s so lonely, spends most nights eating frozen meatloaf dinners alone, talking to his border collie like she’s the only one who gets it. He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just stares at the beer in his hand, condensation dripping down his wrist to pool in the crease of his elbow. She doesn’t push, just sits there, her leg pressed light against his, sipping her beer slow. He sets his beer down, turns his hand over on the counter, palm up, calluses rough against the Formica. She laces her fingers through his without hesitation, her palm warm, a little sticky from holding the jam jar earlier. He doesn’t pull away. He tells her he’s scared, that he doesn’t know how to do this anymore, that he feels like he’s breaking a rule he wrote for himself. She says she’s scared too, that she’s liked him since 2003 when he carried a concussed Jax out of that burning cabin outside Glide, that she never said anything because he was happy, because it wasn’t her turn.
They sit there for 20 minutes, not talking much, just holding hands, watching the last of the sun dip below the western hills, the sky turning soft pink and bruised purple. He asks her if she wants to get carnitas tacos at the food truck down the street, they’re open late on Saturdays, serve them with pickled red onion that’ll make your eyes water. She nods, grinning so wide the crinkles at the corners of her eyes deepen, stands up, doesn’t let go of his hand when he stands too. He shoves the jar of blackberry jam in his beat-up cooler, slings it over his shoulder, locks the chain link gate to the beer garden behind them. Her hand fits in his like it was made to be there, he thinks, the calluses on her fingers matching the ones on his from years of holding chain saws and fire hoses and ax handles. He kicks a loose rock off the sidewalk as they walk, the streetlights flicking on one by one as they head toward the faint glow of the taco truck’s neon sign.
