Clay Bennett leans against the weathered cedar rail of the town beer garden, condensation from his cold IPA beading down his wrist to soak the cuff of his faded Carhartt work shirt. At 58, the retired U.S. Forest Service ranger has spent most of the last seven years holed up in the log cabin he built with his late wife Elaina, avoiding small town events like this annual fire department fundraiser like they carry a contagious strain of small talk. His old high school buddy who now runs the fire crew begged him to show up, said they needed extra hands hauling bratwurst coolers, and Clay’s too stubborn to say no to a favor for a guy who once pulled him out of a frozen creek on a backcountry patrol. The air smells like charcoal smoke and fresh cut bluegrass, cornhole boards clack 20 feet away, and a group of kids shriek so loud chasing a beach ball that a golden retriever tied to a nearby picnic table lifts his head in annoyance.
He spots her before she spots him, standing in line at the drink tent in a faded sunflower print sundress and scuffed white sneakers, the pine tree tattoo on her left wrist peeking out from under a stack of library flyers she’s holding. Mara Carter, 49, Elaina’s younger brother’s ex-wife, moved to Boise six months prior to run the county library’s senior outreach program. Clay hasn’t spoken to her since the divorce was finalized three years ago, back when the whole family gathered for Elaina’s annual memorial cookout and Mara snuck him an extra slice of peach pie while her then-husband screamed at her for getting the tattoo without his permission.
She lifts her head, catches his eye, and grins, walking over before he can pretend to be busy staring at the bouncy house. She stops so close he can smell lavender shampoo mixed with the faint sweet smoke of the cherry wood grill, and he tenses up automatically, old instincts kicking in—for seven years he’s told himself any interest in anyone that isn’t Elaina is a betrayal, and Mara’s technically family, at least as far as the town gossips are concerned. “Still drinking that overhopped garbage you used to hide from Elaina at Christmas?” she teases, nodding at his IPA, and when she reaches to pluck a stray napkin stuck to the front of his shirt, her fingers brush his forearm, warm and calloused from the raised bed gardening she posts about on Facebook. He flinches, and she huffs a laugh, tucking a strand of gray-streaked blonde hair behind her ear. “Relax, I’m not gonna bite. Unless you ask nicely.”
He snorts, surprised into a smile, and they lean against the rail chatting for 20 minutes, first about the library’s new after-school fishing program she’s trying to launch, then about the old backcountry trips he used to take Elaina on, then about the way the whole town still treats them like they’re bound by blood even though he and Mara share zero actual family ties. He can feel eyes on them every few minutes, a couple of the old fire crew guys glancing over and snickering, Mrs. Henderson from the church down the street staring so hard she forgets to take a sip of her lemonade. That familiar twist of self-disgust curls in his gut, like he’s doing something dirty, something Elaina would be furious about, and he almost makes an excuse to leave, until Mara says soft enough no one else can hear, “She told me once, if I ever left that idiot she called a brother, you were the only guy in the state worth giving a second glance. Said you were too stubborn to see it, though.”
The band strikes up a slow 90s country track, the same one Elaina used to drag him into the kitchen to dance to when they’d had too much wine on Sunday nights, and Mara holds out her hand. “Dance with me.” He hesitates, glancing over at the group of gossips by the food tent, and she rolls her eyes. “If you’re gonna let a bunch of retirees with nothing better to do than talk about everyone else’s business run your life, you’re even more stubborn than she said you were.”
He takes her hand, his calloused palm wrapping around hers, and lets her lead him to the patch of packed dirt between the picnic tables that passes for a dance floor. He pulls her close at first only as much as is polite, but when she rests her head on his shoulder, her warm breath fanning against the side of his neck, he lets his hand settle a little lower on her waist, the soft fabric of her sundress bunching under his fingers. He steps on her toe once, and she laughs against his shirt, the sound vibrating through his chest, and for the first time in seven years he doesn’t feel guilty for enjoying something that doesn’t involve tending to Elaina’s garden or fixing up her old pickup. The gossips can stare all they want, he realizes, the old self-imposed rules he’s lived by for years melting away like ice in the summer sun. There’s no betrayal here, only something he thought he’d never get to feel again: light, warm, wanted.
The song ends, and they don’t pull away for a long beat, until the band switches to a faster track and a group of teens runs past them screaming. She looks up at him, the fairy lights strung above the dance floor glinting in her hazel eyes, and he asks her if she wants to get a chocolate milkshake at the diner down the road, the one with the half-broken neon sign that flickers on and off every three seconds. She nods, grinning, and tucks her hand into the crook of his arm, lacing her fingers through his as they walk toward the exit. His buddy from the fire crew winks and gives him a thumbs up as they pass, and Clay doesn’t even bother flipping him off, too focused on the way her hand fits perfectly in his, the cool evening air nipping at his cheeks, the distant sound of the band fading behind them. The crickets chirped loud in the oak trees lining the parking lot, and when she squeezed his hand a little tighter, he didn’t hesitate to squeeze back.
