Cole Henderson, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service hotshot crew lead, leaned against a splintered oak picnic table at the town’s annual volunteer fire department beer tent, condensation from his Pabst Blue Ribbon dripping down his calloused wrist. He’d moved back to his rural Ohio hometown six months prior, after 32 years fighting wildfires across the West, to be closer to his 7-year-old granddaughter, and he’d spent most of that time avoiding any situation that smelled like a setup, his sister’s constant attempts to fix him up with every widowed or divorced woman within a 20-mile radius. His wife had died of ovarian cancer seven years prior, and he’d long since decided that dating at his age was either a scam run by women after his pension, or a sad, desperate act he wasn’t willing to stoop to. He was stubborn to a fault, that was his flaw—once he made up his mind about something, he dug his heels in so hard even a bulldozer couldn’t yank him loose.
The sun dipped below the cornfields, painting the sky a bruised orange, the air thick with the smell of fried onion rings, charcoal, and OFF bug spray. A cover band on the small stage cranked out a rough version of “Jack & Diane,” and a group of drunk farmers yelled along off-key. He was halfway through his second beer, half-watching the cornhole tournament, when he saw her trip over a dented Igloo cooler three feet away. Clara Bennett, 54, owner of the town’s new vintage record shop, ex-wife of his high school best friend Jase, went tumbling forward, the tray of cherry jello shots she was carrying sloshing, one of them splattering directly across the front of his worn gray flannel shirt, the same one his wife had bought him for their 20th anniversary.
She yelped, grabbing his bicep to steady herself, her palm warm even through the thick fabric. “Oh my God, Cole, I am so sorry—these stupid plastic legs on the cooler always fold over when you step too close.” She grabbed a crumpled napkin from the table next to him, dabbing at the sticky red stain on his chest without asking, her arm brushing his jaw when she leaned in. He could smell coconut shampoo and peppermint on her, and when she pulled back to laugh at the mess she’d made, her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, flecked with gold from the string lights strung above the tent. He’d had a crush on her senior year, back when she was Jase’s steady girlfriend, but he’d never said a word, had always considered her permanently off-limits.
He blinked, frozen for half a second, then waved off her apology. “Don’t worry about it. This shirt’s got burn holes bigger than that stain, it’s seen worse.” He wiped the sticky cherry jello off his wrist with the back of his hand, and she grinned, sitting down on the bench next to him, their knees almost touching, the heat from her leg seeping through the worn denim of his jeans. The band got louder, so she leaned in when she asked him about the forest service, her shoulder pressed tight to his when he told her about the time his crew had to shelter in a fire retardant pit for 12 hours during a 2018 blaze in Northern California. He noticed a tiny pine tree tattoo on the inside of her wrist, same as the one he had on his left ankle, earned on his 25th year with the service. She said she got it last year, after she left Jase, when she spent a week solo camping in the Hocking Hills.
The guilt hit him then, sharp and sudden, like a punch to the gut. He’d spent seven years wearing his wedding ring, refusing to even look at another woman, and here he was, flirting with his best friend’s ex-wife, like his wife never existed. He tensed up, going quiet, and she noticed, leaning back a little, her expression softening. “You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. I know people around town still think I’m the bad guy for leaving Jase, and I know you two were close back in the day.”
He shook his head, the guilt warring with the warm, light feeling in his chest that he hadn’t felt since before his wife got sick. “No, that’s not it. Jase told me last month the divorce was final, said it was mutual. I just… I haven’t talked to anyone like this in a long time. Feels like I’m doing something wrong.”
She nodded, like she understood, twisting the silver ring on her index finger. “I get that. I felt guilty for six months after I moved out, like I wasn’t allowed to be happy after 28 years of marriage. Then I realized the only person making me feel guilty was me.” She nodded toward the dirt path leading down to the river, the fireflies flickering in the dark along the banks. “You wanna walk down there? Get away from the noise for a minute?”
He hesitated, his hand brushing the worn leather of his wallet in his back pocket, where he kept a photo of his wife from that same 20th anniversary trip to Yellowstone. He thought about how she’d told him, a week before she died, that she wanted him to live his life, not spend the rest of it sitting alone in the dark. He took a last sip of his beer, set the empty can on the table, and nodded.
They walked down the gravel path, the sound of the band fading behind them, the gurgle of the river getting louder. When they stepped over a gnarled oak root sticking out of the dirt, she grabbed his hand to steady herself, their fingers lacing together automatically, her palm rough from flipping crates of records all day. They stopped under a big maple tree at the edge of the bank, the water glinting silver in the moonlight, and she turned to face him, her thumb brushing the back of his hand.
“I saw you at the grocery store three months ago,” she said, quiet, like she was admitting a secret. “You were buying those neon colored popsicles for your granddaughter, you had chocolate ice cream on your shirt. I wanted to go say hi, but I was scared you’d brush me off.”
He laughed, a low, rough sound, and brushed a strand of gray hair off her face, his knuckles brushing her cheek. “I would’ve been a jerk if I did. I’ve been a jerk to a lot of people lately, I think.”
She tilted her chin up, her eyes darting from his eyes to his mouth, and he leaned in, slow, like he was approaching a skittish deer, their lips brushing soft at first, then firmer, the taste of cherry jello and light beer on her tongue. Somewhere back at the beer tent, someone set off a firework, painting the sky bright pink for a split second, reflecting off the slow-moving river. He tightened his grip on her hand, the cool river breeze tangling their hair together, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel the need to pull away.
