Merv Pritchard, 62, retired Yellowstone backcountry trail maintenance foreman, had not deviated from his Tuesday trivia night routine in 19 months. He sat at the same splintered pine picnic table, ordered the same $4 draft lager, answered the same outdoor and 70s film categories with zero fanfare, and was home by 9:30 to feed his tabby cat and re-oil whatever pair of vintage hiking boots he was restoring that week. His only consistent flaw, as his older brother teased him every holiday, was that he’d built his post-divorce life so rigid, even a strong breeze couldn’t slip through the cracks. He’d not so much as flirted with anyone since his wife Linda left him for a travel nurse 18 years prior, and he’d convinced himself he preferred it that way.
The first crack showed when his usual trivia partner bailed last minute with a sinus infection, and a woman slid into the bench across from him before he could drag the empty seat closer to hoard the pretzel bowl. He recognized her immediately: Clara Hale, Linda’s younger cousin, the girl who’d spent two weeks crashing on their couch the summer after she graduated high school, back when Merv was 28 and still stupid enough to think marriage lasted forever. He’d not seen her in 34 years, not since Linda cut off contact with most of her family after a fight over their grandma’s estate. She’d moved to town three weeks prior to open a used vintage travel book shop, she said, leaning forward so her shoulder brushed the edge of his when she nodded at the trivia host calling the first category. She smelled like lavender hand lotion and cold pine, the same scent she’d worn that summer, when Merv had spent three afternoons fixing her beat-up mountain bike so she could ride the trails around their old apartment.
He tried to focus on the trivia questions, but every time she leaned in to whisper an answer she was sure he didn’t know, her breath fanned warm against the shell of his ear, and he forgot what the question was. When the category switched to 90s female folk singers, she snickered and said she still had the mix tape he’d made her that summer, full of Joni Mitchell and Joan Baez, that she’d kept it through three moves and two marriages. Her knee brushed his under the table when she shifted to grab a pretzel, and he jolted like he’d grabbed the frayed end of a trail light wire, the same sharp, warm buzz he’d gotten when he was 20 and kissing a girl for the first time. He told himself he shouldn’t be feeling this. She was Linda’s cousin. This was the kind of messy family drama he’d spent two decades running from. But when she turned to look at him, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he nailed a question about Yellowstone geyser eruption cycles, he couldn’t bring himself to leave.
They won by three points, split the $25 bar tab gift card evenly, and stepped outside to find a fine, cold drizzle falling, the kind that seeps through flannel if you stand out in it too long. He offered to walk her to her bookshop, it was only two blocks away, and she nodded, tucking her arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. The shop smelled like old paper and leather when she unlocked the door, and she flipped on a string of fairy lights strung above the travel memoir section, pointing out a shelf of first edition hiking narratives she’d scored at an estate sale the week before. When she turned to hand him a copy of *A Walk in the Woods* that had a handwritten note from the author on the inside cover, their fingers brushed, and for three seconds neither of them moved.
She lifted a hand to brush a damp strand of hair off his forehead, her thumb grazing his cheekbone, and he didn’t pull away. He kissed her slow, the taste of her hazy IPA mixing with the peppermint lip balm she wore, his hand resting light on her hip like he was scared he’d break something if he held on too tight. When they pulled apart, she laughed, soft, and said she’d been wondering if he’d ever stop being so stubborn. He didn’t have a comeback for that. He just smiled, and asked her if she wanted to get pancakes with him the next morning, the sourdough ones from the diner down the street that served them with huckleberry syrup. She said yes, and he walked back home in the drizzle, his chest light enough he felt like he could hike 10 miles without stopping, his old work boots squelching softly in the puddles that had formed along the sidewalk.
