Ron Hargrove, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service wildfire crew lead, leaned against the scuffed linoleum bar of The Rusty Pick, his calloused fingers curled around a cold IPA. He’d only shown up to the post-farmers market happy hour because his next door neighbor, a retired teacher named Marnie, had banged on his door at 4 p.m. threatening to steal his vintage chainsaw if he didn’t “get out of that dusty house for once.” It was the first social event he’d agreed to in seven years, ever since his wife Diane had passed from breast cancer. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he’d turned stubborn, almost cruel, in his grief, shutting out anyone who tried to get close, convinced any joy after loss was a betrayal.
The bar hummed with the low rumble of small town chatter, the air thick with the smell of fried dill pickles, pine from the work boots he still wore every day, and the sweet, sharp tang of fresh cut watermelon someone had set out on the back patio. He was halfway through his beer, half listening to a guy he’d gone to high school with rant about the new county zoning laws, when he spotted her.
She was leaning over the jukebox, flipping through the track list, wearing frayed denim cutoff shorts and a faded Flaming Lips t-shirt, silver hoop earrings catching the neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign above the bar. Her hair was streaked with gray at the temples, freckles scattered across her nose and shoulders, sun-kissed from spending weeks outside tending to her herbalist shop garden. He recognized her immediately: Lila, Diane’s baby cousin, 11 years younger than him, the kid who’d snuck cigarettes behind the garage at family cookouts, who he’d taught to skip stones at the lake when she was 16. He hadn’t seen her since Diane’s funeral, when she’d hugged him tight and said she was sorry, then moved to Portland to go to naturopathy school.
She turned, their eyes locked across the room, and she smiled, the same lopsided grin she’d had as a kid. She wove through the crowd of farmers and retirees, and when she got close enough, he could smell lavender and pine resin on her skin, the same scent Diane used to wear when they’d go camping. “Ron Hargrove,” she said, and her voice was lower, warmer than he remembered, her hand brushing his forearm when she reached out to say hi. The contact sent a jolt up his arm, and he tensed, his first thought a sharp, guilty lurch: This is wrong. You shouldn’t be noticing how her smile crinkles the corners of her eyes.
She laughed, like she could read his mind, and leaned against the bar next to him, her shoulder pressed to his bicep through the thin flannel shirt he’d worn. “I saw your beat up old Ford in the parking lot, recognized the forest service decal you still have taped to the back window. I thought you’d be hiding out at home, sanding that old canoe you were always working on when I was a kid.” He blinked, surprised she remembered that. No one had asked him about the canoe in years. He found himself talking, telling her he’d finished it three years prior, that he took it out on the lake every Sunday at dawn, that the fish were biting better this summer than they had in a decade. She leaned in closer when a group of rowdy farm hands cheered at a football play on the TV above the bar, her breath warm against his ear, and he didn’t move away.
For an hour, they talked, swapping stories about Diane, about the old family cookouts, about the time Lila had crashed Diane’s 25th birthday party and spilled an entire bowl of punch down the front of Ron’s work uniform. He found himself laughing, a real laugh, the kind that made his sides ache, and when she reached across the bar to grab a bowl of peanuts, her fingers brushed his, lingering for half a second longer than they needed to. He was torn, split clean down the middle: part of him felt sick, disgusted that he was even entertaining the idea that this could be anything more than a friendly chat, that people in town would talk, that Diane would think he was an idiot. The other part? He hadn’t felt this alive, this seen, in seven years. No one had asked him about his old fire crew stories, about the time he’d fought a 10,000 acre blaze outside of Bend, in longer than he could remember. She hung on every word, nodding, asking questions, like what he had to say mattered.
When the bar started to clear out, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her thumb brushing his wrist as she pulled her hand away. “I learned Diane’s huckleberry jam recipe before I moved back,” she said, her eyes steady on his, no trace of the shy kid he’d known. “I’ve got a jar at the shop, if you want to walk over and get it. It’s only five minutes up the street.” He hesitated, his brain screaming at him to say no, to go home, to sit on the couch and watch old westerns like he did every other night. But then she smiled again, and he found himself saying yes.
The summer air was warm when they stepped outside, crickets chirping in the grass along the sidewalk, the sky streaked pink and orange from the setting sun. Their knuckles brushed twice as they walked, before he curled his calloused fingers around hers, slow, like he was scared she’d pull away. She didn’t. She squeezed his hand, soft, and kept walking.
Her shop was on the corner of Main Street, the door jingling when they pushed it open, the air inside thick with the smell of mint, dried lavender, and chamomile. She led him to the back shelf, pulled a glass jar full of deep purple jam off the wood, and handed it to him. When he took it, she leaned up, kissing him soft on the cheek first, then on the mouth, her lips tasting like peach iced tea and mint. He didn’t pull away. He set the jam down on the counter next to a stack of dried sage bundles, wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her closer. The streetlight filtered through the front window, casting thin gold streaks across the shelves of dried herbs and glass tincture bottles. He brushed a stray freckled strand of hair off her forehead, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel guilty for wanting to stay.
