Clay Bennett, 58, leans against the splintered pine picnic table at his Missoula neighborhood’s annual summer block party, sweating through the faded 2017 Lolo Peak Fire crew shirt he’s owned for 7 years. He’d avoided the party every year since his wife, Ellen, died of ovarian cancer, only caving this time when his next-door neighbor banged on his garage door at 3 PM holding a six pack of his favorite IPA, saying if he hid out turning bowls one more year she’d douse his lawn in dandelion seeds. The beer is cold enough to make his fingers tingle, the air thick with the smell of grilled bratwurst, citronella, and overripe strawberries from the stand down the street. Kids scream as they chase a fluffy golden retriever across patchy front yards, a classic rock cover band plays off-key two houses down, and Clay’s already mentally calculating how fast he can slip out without anyone noticing.
He’s mid-sip when she trips over a rolling cooler at his feet, stumbling forward hard enough that her open palm slams into his chest, the plate of peach cobbler she’s carrying tilting just enough to drip a drop of sticky syrup on his shirt. He catches her elbow automatically, his calloused hand wrapping around the firm, sun-warmed skin of her forearm, and when she looks up, he recognizes her immediately: Maeve Carter, 42, his neighbor’s niece, the park ranger who moved back to town three months prior after leaving her cheating husband in Bozeman. The neighborhood gossip mill has run nonstop about her, half the old biddies calling her a homewrecker, half the single guys loitering by his neighbor’s yard hoping to catch a glimpse. Clay had deliberately avoided meeting her, pretended not to be home the three times she’d knocked on his garage door asking about a custom turned bowl for her mom’s birthday. He’d told himself it was to avoid drama, but the real reason was simpler: he’d seen her hiking the trail behind his house once, sun on her shoulders, and felt a jolt of attraction so sharp it made him feel guilty, like he was cheating on Ellen.
She laughs, a low, rough sound that cuts through the party noise, and swipes at the syrup on his shirt with the back of her hand, her knuckle brushing his nipple through the thin cotton. “Shit, sorry about that. Cooler came out of nowhere.” Her hazel eyes are flecked with green, crinkled at the corners from sun exposure, and there’s a thin, silvery scar snaking up her left forearm, the kind you get from a wild animal run-in. She smells like pine sap and vanilla lip balm, and when she leans in closer to brush a crumb of cobbler off her own jeans, her shoulder presses against his, warm and solid. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of every place their bodies are almost touching: the way their knees brush when she sits down on the picnic bench next to him, the way her auburn braid falls forward when she tilts her head to look at his crew shirt. “You were on Lolo Peak? I was too, mop up crew. Got that scar right there from a juvenile black bear that spooked when I stepped on a twig too close to its den.” She taps the scar on her arm, and Clay finds himself leaning in too, forgetting his exit plan, forgetting the gossip, forgetting the heavy guilt that’s sat in his chest for 7 years.
His neighbor yells from her porch that she’s heading inside, leaving the two of them alone at the picnic table, the only sounds left crickets chirping in the grass and the distant hum of a car driving down the main road. Maeve twists the stem of her empty plastic wine glass between her fingers, and looks up at him, her eyes dark in the low light. “I know you’ve been avoiding me. I heard you think I’m too young, too much trouble.” Clay doesn’t deny it, his throat tight, his heart hammering so hard he can feel it in his ears. She reaches across the table, laces her fingers through his, her hands just as rough as his from years of trail work, chopping wood, fixing broken park equipment. “I don’t care what anyone says. I’ve liked your work for months, I’ve liked hearing stories about you from my aunt. You’re the only person in this whole neighborhood who hasn’t treated me like a scandal or a charity case.”
Clay sits there for a long beat, the rough texture of her hand against his, the smell of pine still clinging to her hair, and for the first time in 7 years, he doesn’t feel guilty for wanting something for himself. He stands, pulls her gently to her feet, and they walk the two blocks to his house slow, no one talking, their hands still laced together, the night air warm on his bare arms. When they get to his porch, he leans down, kisses her slow, tastes peach cobbler and crisp white wine on her lips, and she sighs into it, her free hand curling around the back of his neck, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp. He pulls back just enough to unlock the front door, pushes it open, and gestures for her to step inside ahead of him.
