He’s stacking a new pile of walnut cutting boards when he hears the laugh. It’s bright, a little rough around the edges, and he freezes mid-lift, because he hasn’t heard that laugh in 10 years, not since Ellie’s 40th birthday party, before the ALS diagnosis. He looks up, and there she is. Mara. Ellie’s younger sister, 52, six years younger than Ellie was when she died, her dark hair streaked with a single thick stripe of silver at the temple, wearing cutoff denim shorts and a scuffed Pearl Jam tee, silver hoops glinting in the sun. She’s holding a lemonade in one hand, a paper plate with a fried funnel cake in the other, and she’s grinning like she knew he’d be here.
His first reaction is a sharp, hot twist of guilt, like he’s doing something wrong just by looking at her. He’d always been aware of her, back when Ellie was alive—she’d come visit their cabin for weekends, bring him craft beer, ask questions about his fire crew runs, tease Ellie for marrying a guy who’d rather chop wood than go to a wine tasting. There’d always been a quiet, unspoken tension, the kind neither of them ever acknowledged, because Ellie was the center of both their worlds. He fights the stupid, reflexive urge to turn and walk away, to pretend he didn’t see her, to go back to the safe, empty routine he’s built for himself.
She leans across the table to hug him, and he stiffens at first, his hands hovering awkwardly over her back for a second before he pats her shoulder. Her arm brushes the bare skin of his bicep, and he can smell coconut sunscreen and peppermint gum on her, the scent sharp and warm in the thick summer air. Her hand lingers on his shoulder a beat longer than necessary when she pulls back, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “You still carve,” she says, nodding at the otter figurine, picking it up to run her thumb over the carved fur details. “I always told Ellie you could’ve quit the fire crew and done this full time.”
He grunts, noncommittal, still fighting the strange pull in his chest, the part of him that wants to lean in closer, the part that’s screaming that this is wrong, that Ellie would hate it. A little kid in a superhero cape runs past the booth, slamming into the table leg, and half his stack of cutting boards clatters to the asphalt. They both bend down to grab them at the same time, their heads knocking together with a soft thud, and she snorts, laughing so hard lemonade dribbles down her chin. Their hands brush when they reach for the same curly maple board, and he yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, his face heating up under the sun.
He says yes.
The bar smells like fried peanuts and cheap Pabst, the jukebox playing Johnny Cash deep in the background, the neon sign casting a faint blue glow over the booth they squeeze into. Their knees brush under the Formica table, and neither of them moves away. She tells him she quit her graphic design job in Portland, moved back to town to take the open high school art teacher position, got sick of dating guys 10 years younger than her who couldn’t hold a conversation about anything other than crypto and crossfit. He tells her about the fire crew trip he took last month with a few old teammates, how he still has nightmares about bad burns, how he hasn’t let anyone sleep over at the cabin since Ellie died. She reaches across the table, brushes a stray strand of gray hair off his forehead, and her thumb grazes his cheek, warm and soft, and he doesn’t pull away.
Last call rings out 45 minutes later, and they walk out into the cool dark, crickets chirping loud in the grass along the sidewalk, the streetlights casting golden circles over the pavement. He walks her to her old pickup truck, parked under a big oak tree at the edge of the lot, and she leans up before he can say goodnight, kissing him slow, soft, the taste of peppermint gum and Pabst on her lips. He kisses her back, his hands resting light on her waist, no guilt, no fight, just a warm, heavy relief he hasn’t felt in years. When she pulls back, she’s grinning, her cheeks flushed, and she asks if he wants to come back to her rental for coffee, or stay over, whatever he’s comfortable with. He tucks her hand into the crook of his arm, tells her he’d rather go to his cabin, that he’ll make blueberry pancakes from scratch in the morning, and she squeezes his wrist so tight he can feel the edge of her silver thumb ring press into his skin.
