Clay Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service ranger with 32 years on fire lines and backcountry patrols in the Bitterroot National Forest, leaned against a gnarled maple at the North End Boise block party, nursing a lukewarm Pabst. His flannel sleeves were rolled to the elbows, showing a faded tattoo of a pine tree on his left forearm, and his work boots were caked with the same garden dirt that had earned him a snarky HOA violation notice two weeks prior. His biggest flaw, one his ex-wife had yelled about across their kitchen table for 27 years, was that he’d rather chew glass than bend a rule he thought was stupid. He’d moved to Boise last year after she sold their Montana cabin without telling him, shacked up with a 43-year-old SaaS salesman who wore Lululemons to hike, and Clay had zero interest in playing nice with the neighborhood busybodies, especially the new HOA president, a guy named Todd who wore crisp polos and sent passive-aggressive group texts about “curb appeal.”
The air smelled like charred bratwurst, cut grass, and coconut sunscreen, the sound of cornhole bags thudding against wooden boards mixing with the high-pitched screams of kids chasing a golden retriever through the sprinklers. Clay was half considering bailing to go home and rewatch a John Wayne western when a woman in a flowy yellow sundress tripped over a sprinkler head three feet away, stumbled forward, and slammed her palm flat against his chest to catch herself. Lemon bar crumbs dusted the front of his flannel, and she looked up at him, hazel eyes flecked with gold, silver hoop earrings swinging, and laughed so hard her shoulders shook. “I am so sorry,” she said, brushing crumbs off his shirt with her free hand, her forearm brushing his bicep long enough that he could feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton. “These stupid wedge sandals were a terrible call for grass.”
He recognized her immediately: Marnie, Todd’s wife. The woman he’d seen trailing behind him at the last HOA meeting, rolling her eyes every time Todd ranted about unpermitted patio furniture. Clay’s first instinct was to step back, put distance between them, avoid the drama of messing with the HOA guy’s spouse. The rational part of his brain screamed that this was a terrible idea, that Todd would fine him for every blade of grass out of place if he so much as smiled at his wife. But then she leaned against the maple next to him, their shoulders three inches apart, and said, “Todd’s been bitching about your rose bushes for three days. I told him you were a retired ranger, probably used to trees growing where they want, but he doesn’t listen to anything I say.”
Clay snort-laughed, the sound rougher than he intended. He passed her his Pabst when she nodded at it, and her fingers wrapped around the exact spot his had been, leaving faint condensation on his skin when he let go. She took a sip, left a smudge of cherry red lipstick on the rim, and handed it back. She told him she’d been a graphic designer in Seattle before Todd dragged her to Boise for his corporate promotion, that she missed the ocean, that Todd spent three hours a night writing HOA notices instead of asking how her day was. Clay told her about the time he’d spent three days stranded in a backcountry cabin during a blizzard, about his 7-year-old granddaughter who loved to hunt for rocks in his front yard, about how his ex-wife had left him for a guy who called hiking “forest therapy.”
The sun dipped lower, painting the sky pale pink and tangerine, and Clay could feel the tension coiling in his chest, half disgust at himself for even entertaining the thought of this, half buzzing excitement he hadn’t felt since he was 29 and met a travel nurse at a fire line base camp. He kept waiting for the guilt to kick in, for the voice in his head that had always followed the rules to yell at him to leave, but it stayed quiet. Marnie leaned in closer when a group of PTA moms walked past, her breath warm against his ear, and he could smell vanilla on her breath, under the beer. “I know a spot up in the foothills,” she whispered, so quiet only he could hear it, “the overlook by the old fire tower. You know it?” Clay nodded, he’d taken his granddaughter there last month to watch the meteor shower. “Meet me there in an hour,” she said. “Leave your phone at home. And for the love of God, trim those roses next week so Todd doesn’t have an excuse to badger both of us.”
She pulled back, winked, and walked away before he could answer, her sundress swishing against her calves as she headed over to help Todd fold up folding tables across the yard. Clay stood there for a full minute, staring at the lipstick smudge on the rim of his beer can, fighting with himself. He’d never been the other guy, never cheated, never crossed a line that would hurt someone else, even if that someone was a pretentious HOA prick who cared more about property values than people being happy. But then he remembered the way his ex-wife had laughed when she told him she was leaving, the way Todd had smirked at him when he handed him the violation notice, the weight of Marnie’s palm on his chest, the sound of her laugh. He drained the last of the beer, tossed the can in a nearby recycling bin, and walked home.
He changed out of his dusty work boots into a pair of clean hiking shoes, grabbed his truck keys off the counter, and left his phone on the kitchen table, just like she’d said. The drive up to the overlook took 20 minutes, the road winding up through pine trees, the air cooling as he climbed higher. Her silver sedan was parked in the dirt lot when he got there, and she was sitting on the hood, holding a bottle of bourbon, waving when she saw his truck pull up. He parked, walked over, and sat next to her on the hood, their legs brushing when he settled in. She handed him the bourbon, no glass, and he took a long sip, the smooth burn of it warming his chest.
The sun dipped below the Owyhee Mountains, painting the sky deep purple and orange, the city lights flickering on below them, crickets chirping in the brush at the edge of the lot. Neither of them said anything for ten minutes, just watched the sky darken, the bourbon passing between them. Marnie leaned her head on his shoulder, her hair soft against his neck, and Clay didn’t move. He didn’t think about Todd, or the HOA notices, or his ex-wife, or the roses he still hadn’t trimmed. He just sat there, watching the first star prick through the dark purple sky, and lifted the bourbon bottle to his mouth for another sip.
