Clay Bennett is 58, retired U.S. Forest Service wildfire crew lead, left the job three years back after a rotator cuff tear that made hauling hoses feel like trying to lift a cinder block with a wet noodle. His biggest flaw, if you ask his niece Lila, is that he’s spent the seven years since his wife Diane died of ovarian cancer acting like any small joy that doesn’t involve splitting firewood or fixing his 2008 Ford F-150 is a betrayal of her memory. He still carries two thick scars: one snaking up his left forearm from the 2019 Lolo Peak blaze that took two of his crew, the other a pale line across his ribs from the same fire, one he never shows anyone.
He’s halfway to convincing himself he can slip out early without Lila noticing when Mara Carter walks up. She’s 52, the new county public health nurse who moved to town last fall, the one who gave him his shingles shot back in March and who he embarrassed himself in front of by flinching so hard he knocked her entire clipboard of patient forms off the exam room counter. She’s wearing cutoff denim shorts, a faded Willie Nelson tee that’s frayed at the hem, and scuffed work boots caked with the same red clay that sticks to his own boots every time he hikes up the trail behind his cabin. She’s holding two black cherry seltzers, and when she stops next to him, she’s close enough that he can smell coconut sunscreen and spearmint gum on her breath.
“Figured I owed you one,” she says, holding out the seltzer. Her shoulder brushes his left forearm when she passes it over, and the cold of the aluminum can seeps through the thin fabric of his faded Forest Service hoodie. He takes it, mumbles a thanks, and takes a sip. It’s sweeter than he expected, fizzes on his tongue.
They make small talk at first, about the fundraiser, about the weirdly cool July weather, about the wildfire risk forecast that’s already spiking for August. When a kid chasing that same golden retriever barrels past, she lurches into him to get out of the way, her palm landing flat on his chest right over that rib scar he never shows anyone. She apologizes immediately, pulling her hand back, but he can feel the heat of her touch through his hoodie for a full ten seconds after she moves it. She holds his eye contact when he mentions the 2019 Lolo fire, no pitying little frown most people give him when he brings it up, just a small, sad nod. She says her older brother was a wildfire crew lead in Oregon, died in the 2020 Beachie Creek Fire, so she knows what it’s like to carry weight you don’t talk about out loud.
That’s when the conflict hits him, sharp as a pine needle to the neck. For seven years he’s told himself any interest in another woman is disgusting, a slap in the face to Diane, to the 27 years they had together. But when she laughs at a dumb joke he makes about the time he accidentally lit his own boot on fire on a crew call, his chest feels light in a way he hasn’t felt since before Diane got sick. He can’t stop staring at the smudge of charcoal on her left wrist, from helping flip burgers at the grill earlier, or the tiny silver star tattoo peeking out from under the hem of her tee sleeve, or the way she tucks a strand of sun-bleached blonde hair behind her ear every time she listens to him talk.
The band switches to a slow, twangy cover of Rosanne Cash’s “Seven Year Ache”, and couples start drifting onto the patch of mowed grass in front of the gazebo to dance. Mara tilts her head at him, a half-smile playing on her lips, and asks if he dances. He tells her he hasn’t danced since his wedding, that he’s got two left feet and he’s probably gonna step on her boots. She snorts, holds out her hand, calloused from the vegetable garden she told him she keeps out behind her rental, and says that’s a risk she’s willing to take.
He hesitates for three full seconds, every part of his brain screaming that he should say no, that he’s too old for this, that he’s just gonna end up hurt again. Then he takes her hand. The callus on her index finger, from when she told him she cut herself with a pocket knife as a kid trying to carve a wooden bear, rubs against the back of his hand when she laces their fingers together. They step out onto the grass, and at first they stand a foot apart, awkward, his hand on her waist, hers on his shoulder, stepping around other couples. A gust of wind blows a shower of pine needles at them, and she steps closer, her forehead almost resting on his chest, and he can feel the warmth of her body through both their shirts, the soft thud of her heartbeat against his. He realizes the disgust he’s been carrying for years isn’t loyalty, it’s just fear, fear that he’ll lose someone else, fear that he doesn’t deserve to feel good after all the people he couldn’t save.
They dance through the whole song, then another slow one, and by the end of the second, his hand is splayed across her lower back, her head is resting on his shoulder, and he’s forgotten all about the plan he had to slip out early. When the band finishes the set and the crowd cheers, she pulls back just enough to look up at him, her eyes glinting in the string lights strung between the pines. She says she’s got a cooler of good hazy IPA in her fridge at her place, ten minutes up the road, no pressure, but she’d like it if he came over.
He glances over at the cornhole pit, where Lila is grinning so wide her cheeks look like they might hurt, giving him a very unsubtle thumbs up. He looks back at Mara, nods, and tosses his empty seltzer can into the trash can next to the pine. He takes her hand again when she offers it, and they walk toward the parking lot, the sound of the band’s next set fading behind them, the smell of pine and grill smoke clinging to both their clothes.
