Late September in Bend, Oregon, the VFW hall’s back parking lot smells like crushed pine needles and fried catfish grease, the kind that sticks to your hair for three days after you leave. Rafe Marquez, 62, retired wildland fire crew supervisor, is slouched in his usual corner booth, calloused fingers curled around a cold Coors Banquet, ignoring the group of old crew buddies yelling at him to come join their poker game. The hum of the old space heater in the corner mixes with the sound of 90s country playing over the crackling overhead speakers. He’s avoided large groups for eight years, ever since his wife Elaina died in a car crash on her way to bring him lunch at a fire line outside La Pine. His biggest flaw, the one his old captain used to nag him about, is that he’d rather stew in silence than admit he’s lonely.
He’s halfway through his second beer when he sees her. Lila Mendez, Elaina’s younger cousin, the one he hasn’t seen since Elaina’s funeral, is weaving through the folding tables, scuffed work boots tapping on the scuffed linoleum. She’s 54 now, sun streaks laced through her dark wavy hair, a chip in the blue nail polish on her left thumb the same as it was when she was 22 and showed up to their house for Christmas with a tattoo of a cactus on her wrist and a jar of salsa so spicy Rafe’s nose ran for an hour after he ate it. She spots him, grins, and the same dimple Elaina had pops in her left cheek.
She slides into the booth across from him before he can think of an excuse to leave. Leans forward to hug him quick, her shoulder brushing his jaw, and he catches a whiff of lavender soap (the same brand Elaina used) mixed with peppermint lip balm and campfire smoke. He tenses up at first, mind screaming that this is wrong, that she’s family by marriage, that letting her get close is a betrayal of the 34 years he spent with Elaina. She doesn’t seem to notice, flags down a volunteer to bring her a beer, and rests her elbows on the table, knees knocking his under the surface. She doesn’t pull away when he doesn’t shift his leg.
They talk for two hours, the hall emptying out around them, the last of the volunteer cooks wiping down the fryers and locking up the beer cooler. She tells him she moved to Bend three weeks prior to take care of her mom, who’s got early stage dementia, that she quit her full-time travel blog gig to be close by. He finds himself telling her things he hasn’t told anyone, how he still sets out two mugs of coffee every morning before he remembers, how he sold his old fire crew truck last year because the sound of the engine made him think of Elaina riding shotgun to the trailheads they used to hike on his days off. When she passes him the bottle of Tabasco to dab on the leftover hushpuppy he’s picking at, their fingers brush, and his skin tingles like he touched the end of a lit match. He yanks his hand back, face hot, and she laughs, soft, not teasing.
“She always told me if something ever happened to her, she wanted you to stop being such a stubborn jackass and let someone take care of you for once,” Lila says, holding his gaze steady, no hesitation. Rafe’s throat goes tight. He’d spent eight years feeling guilty for even looking at another woman, convinced that any hint of desire meant he was erasing Elaina from his memory. He’d turned down half a dozen setups from friends, ignored the waitress at the downtown diner who’d been leaving free peach pie slices on his table for a year, convinced he didn’t deserve to be happy again. But sitting across from Lila, watching her twist the same silver ring Elaina gave her for her 30th birthday around her finger, the disgust he’d felt ten minutes prior at his own wandering thoughts melts away, slow, like snow hitting warm asphalt.
He walks her to her beat up 4Runner when the last of the VFW staff turns off the overhead lights, the night air cold enough to see their breath, the sky so clear you can see every star in the Big Dipper, the same constellation Elaina used to point out to Lila when they were kids camping at Smith Rock. She stops at the driver’s side door, reaches up to brush a pine needle off the collar of his worn fire crew flannel, her hand lingering on his chest, and he can feel the heat of her palm through the thin fabric. He doesn’t pull away.
He asks her if she wants to come back to his cabin, have a cup of the extra strong black coffee Elaina used to complain was strong enough to strip paint off a fire truck. Lila grins, that same dimple popping, and says she brought a jar of that extra spicy salsa in her cooler, if he’s still brave enough to eat it without crying. He opens the passenger door for her, and when she climbs in, her hand rests on his forearm for half a second, warm and steady.
The drive back to his cabin is quiet, the radio playing old Johnny Cash songs Elaina used to blast when they were driving to the coast for weekend trips. He doesn’t feel guilty, doesn’t feel like he’s doing something wrong, for the first time in eight years. When he turns onto the rutted dirt road leading to his cabin, he reaches over, rests his hand on top of hers where it sits on the center console, and doesn’t let go.
