Clay Bennett, 57, retired U.S. Forest Service hotshot, now part-time vintage fly rod restorer, had shown up to the Boise neighborhood chili cookoff only because his neighbor begged him to enter his award-winning green hatch chili. He’d avoided local public events for years, sick of the same questions about when he’d start dating again, why he never posted photos of grandkids (he didn’t have any) on Facebook, how his scar was holding up. The scar, silvery and laced tight around his left wrist, was from the 2011 Lolo Peak fire, the same blaze that had left him with a permanent ringing in his left ear and a deep-seated stubbornness to never let anyone get close enough to ask him to talk about it.
The air smelled like smoked sausage, roasted chiles, and rotting apple pulp from the old orchard at the edge of the park, the bluegrass band off by the picnic tables sawing through a worn cover of “Foggy Mountain Breakdown.” He was reaching for a plastic cup of root beer when a woman’s elbow brushed the scar, making him flinch. He looked over, and it was Mara Hale, 52, owner of the downtown independent bookstore he’d been frequenting for six years, ex-wife of his old hotshot crew captain, Jake. She was wearing a faded red flannel rolled up to her elbows, jeans cuffed over scuffed work boots, her dark hair streaked with gray pulled back in a loose braid. She apologized immediately, her fingers brushing the scar for half a second before she pulled back, her eyebrows raised. “Sorry, didn’t see you there. That’s the Lolo burn, right? Jake mentioned it once.”
Clay’s jaw tightened. He’d always hated hearing Jake’s name attached to anything involving Mara, ever since Jake had left her 18 months prior for a 28-year-old Forest Service admin, posting photos of their Cabo trip on Instagram like he hadn’t been married to Mara for 22 years. Clay had sent Jake a single text after that—Grow up—and hadn’t spoken to him since, but that old crew loyalty still lingered, a quiet voice in his head telling him he shouldn’t be standing this close to her, shouldn’t be noticing how her perfume smelled like cedar and orange peel, shouldn’t be thinking about how she’d helped him carry a stack of fly fishing memoirs to his truck in a rainstorm two years prior, laughing so hard she snort-laughed when he slipped on a puddle.
“Y’all are raising money for the banned books, right?” he said, nodding at the sign pinned to her flannel, a hand-drawn sticker that read I READ BANNED BOOKS AND I VOTE. The recent school board vote to pull 37 classic titles from the high school library had blown up local news for weeks, Mara showing up to every meeting to argue against the ban, getting called “obscene” by a group of angry parents in the parking lot after one vote. He’d watched the clip on the local news twice, proud of her for not backing down, even when one guy had gotten in her face.
“Sure are. Jake’s here with his new girlfriend, by the way,” she said, tilting her head toward the other end of the park, where he could see Jake holding a paper plate of chili, his new girlfriend clinging to his arm. “Was just about to sneak off before he tries to make small talk. I got that first edition of Norman Maclean’s *Young Men and Fire* you’ve been asking after for two years, back at the store. You wanna come get it? No charge. Consider it a thank you for donating that set of vintage fishing books to our banned books display last month.”
Clay hesitated for half a second, that old loyalty pinging again, then nodded. The walk to the store was three blocks, the crisp September air stinging his cheeks, kids screaming as they chased a golden retriever past them on the sidewalk. She unlocked the front door, flipping on only the string lights strung above the poetry section, the air inside smelling like old paper, leather bindings, and the vanilla candle she kept burning by the cash register. She locked the door behind them, turning to face him, so close he could feel her breath on his jaw, the taste of green chili still lingering on his tongue from the cookoff.
She reached behind the counter for the book, holding it out to him, and when he reached for it their hands touched, his calloused fingers brushing hers, soft from handling paper all day. He didn’t pull away. She didn’t either. He looked down at her, her dark eyes warm, the corner of her mouth tilted up in a half-smile he’d seen a hundred times across the bookstore counter, but never this close. For a second he thought about walking out, about sticking to his stupid rule, about how everyone his age acted like desire was something you outgrew once you hit 50, like all you were allowed to want was quiet afternoons and early bird dinners. Then she leaned in, pressing her lips to his, her hand coming up to rest on his left wrist, her thumb brushing the scar gently, no flinch, no pity, just soft pressure.
He kissed her back, his hand cupping her cheek, the old ringing in his ear fading out for the first time in years, the noise of the cookoff distant outside the thick store windows. When they pulled back a minute later, she laughed, quiet, shaking her head. “I’ve been waiting three years to do that, for the record. Ever since you slipped in that rainstorm and tried to pretend you didn’t.” He snorted, shaking his head, the guilt that had been sitting in his chest for the last hour melting away entirely, no more conflict, no more rules, just the quiet hum of the mini-fridge behind the counter holding the bottle of bourbon she kept for special occasions.
A knock on the front door made them both look over, a teen kid holding a library card, pressing his face to the glass. Mara yelled back that they were closed for a private event, turning to him, raising an eyebrow. “You wanna stay for that bourbon? I got extra cups.” He set the first edition Maclean on the nearest poetry shelf and nodded, the faint twang of the bluegrass band still drifting through the cracked front window.
