Ray Voss, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service firefighter, leans against a splintered pine picnic table at the annual Elk Rapids Fireman’s Carnival, the cold condensation of his IPA dripping down his left forearm, over the thick, silvery scar he picked up fighting the 2019 Oregon wildfires. He’d dragged himself out here only because he owed the current fire chief a favor, hauling folding tables and port-a-potty anchors at 6 a.m., and he’d planned to slip out before the sun fully set, before anyone could corner him into volunteering for next year’s event, before the small-town gossip mill could latch onto any new detail of his quiet, post-retirement life. He’s avoided casual connection for seven years, ever since his wife died in a car crash outside of Boise, a flaw he’d long since justified as self-preservation, not cowardice.
The air smells like fried Oreos and charcoal, the high-pitched shriek of kids on the Tilt-a-Whirl cutting through the twang of a cover band playing old Johnny Cash. He’s halfway through his second beer when Clara Bennett trips over the strap of a rolling cooler two feet away, the crate of hand-printed dog bandanas she’s carrying for the animal shelter fundraiser tipping forward. Ray moves before he thinks, one hand wrapping around her bare waist to steady her, the other catching the edge of the crate before it spills into the dirt. She laughs, loud and warm, the sound cutting through the noise around them, and when she turns to face him he catches the scent of coconut sunscreen and spearmint gum, the faint silver streaks in her dark blonde hair catching the last of the golden sunlight. She’s 54, runs the town’s no-kill shelter, and she’s the ex-wife of his high school best friend, a line he’s never once considered crossing, even when Mike and Clara split amicably six years prior.
Her bare arm brushes the scar on his forearm as she takes the crate from him, her thumb brushing the raised skin for half a second, deliberate enough that he doesn’t miss it. She teases him for still having the same reflexes he had when he was 17, when he pulled her out of a flipped jet ski in the middle of Torch Lake, when Mike was too drunk on cheap beer to notice she’d gone under. He feels the tightness in his chest he always gets when he’s confronted with something he doesn’t think he deserves, warring with the low, warm hum of desire that’s been dormant for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like. He’s disgusted with himself at first, for even entertaining the thought of going near his old friend’s ex, for risking the quiet, drama-free life he’s built since moving back to Michigan last year to take care of his late mom’s cottage. But she’s holding eye contact, not pulling away, her hip still brushing his where they stand, and she asks if he wants to walk down to the lake shore, get away from the noise for a minute.
He says yes before he can talk himself out of it.
The walk down the dirt path to the small, public beach is quiet, the sound of the carnival fading behind them, crickets starting to chirp in the oak trees lining the path. She slips her sandals off when they hit the sand, wades a few inches into the cool, shallow water, and he follows suit, yanking his work boots off and rolling his jeans up to his calves. She tells him about the three-legged beagle the shelter rescued last week, about the group of local teens who’ve been volunteering to walk the dogs on weekends, and he finds himself talking about the baby bear he pulled out of a burning pine outside of Bend in 2021, a story he hasn’t told anyone since his wife died. She steps closer, their shoulders pressing together, and he can feel the heat of her skin through his thin, unbuttoned flannel shirt, the rough callus on her index finger when she brushes a pine needle off his sleeve. She admits she always liked him, even back when she was dating Mike, that he was the quiet one who listened instead of bragging about football games or stupid high school stunts. He admits he’s spent seven years trying to feel nothing, because feeling anything felt like betraying his wife, like risking the kind of pain he didn’t think he could survive twice.
She leans in then, and he kisses her, slow, no rush, the cold lake water lapping at their calves, the distant boom of the carnival’s opening firework going off behind them. It’s not the frantic, hungry kiss of 20-year-olds, it’s the soft, curious kiss of two people who’ve spent decades carrying weight, who know exactly what they stand to lose. They stay there for an hour, talking in low voices, their feet in the water, his hand resting on her waist where he first touched her, no awkward silences, no pressure to make plans for later. When they walk back up the path to the carnival, the sky is lit up with red and blue bursts of fireworks, and he doesn’t let go of her hand, even when they pass Mike standing by the beer tent, holding a cold beer of his own. Mike nods at them, raises his can in a quiet toast, no anger, no judgment, because everyone in their 50s has outgrown the stupid, unwritten rules of small town high school drama.
They find an empty spot on the grass away from the crowd, she leans her head on his shoulder, and he rests his free hand on her knee, the fabric of her cutoff jeans soft under his palm. He can still smell coconut sunscreen on her hair, can feel the low thrum of the fireworks’ explosions in his chest right along with his own steady heartbeat. A stray golden retriever, one of the shelter dogs Clara brought to the carnival, trots over and drops a slobbery tennis ball at his feet.
He leans down to pick it up, his fingers brushing the dog’s soft, warm fur, and tosses it across the grass, laughing when the dog bolts after it so fast its paws slip on the damp dirt.
