Rafe Mendez, 62, retired Willamette Valley wildlife refuge manager, only showed up to the neighborhood block party because his granddaughter threatened to stop letting him take her hiking if he “hid from the world for one more summer.” He’d propped himself against a dented plastic picnic table an hour prior, nursing a lukewarm Pabst, wearing the frayed Carhartt jacket he’d owned since his first year on the job even though the July air hung thick and sweet with clover and charcoal smoke. He’d spent the whole time angling his body away from crowds, avoiding small talk about his garden, his retirement, the fact he’d been single for four years, ever since Elara died.
He’d just decided he could sneak out without anyone noticing when Mara Hale stepped into his line of sight. She was 58, the new county librarian who’d moved into the house next door eight months prior, and Rafe had gone out of his way to avoid her for every single one of those months. The reason was stupid: he’d checked out a tattered 1972 first edition of *Pacific Northwest Birding* from her branch two years before she moved, lost it on a hike when a rainstorm flooded his pack, and had never mustered the courage to fess up. The whole neighborhood had been teasing them for months, calling them the block’s two “loner old birds,” and Rafe had hated every second of it, hated that the joke made his chest feel tight, that he’d catch himself watching her water her tomato plants through the gap in his fence when he thought no one was looking.
Mara held a paper plate stacked with grilled peach slices, the skin charred at the edges, syrup dripping down the side. She walked right up to him, no hesitation, and the lavender perfume she wore cut through the smell of bratwurst and burnt hot dogs. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said, grinning, the corner of her mouth pulling up higher on one side like she already knew he’d been trying to run. She leaned in when she talked, close enough that Rafe could smell the hint of menthol on her breath, and a kid darting past chasing a golden retriever knocked her shoulder hard into his bicep. She didn’t step back.
Rafe froze, his fingers tightening around his beer can until his knuckles went white. He’d spent four years convincing himself he didn’t get to want anything that didn’t involve Elara, that even noticing how Mara’s silver hoop earrings caught the string light glow, how her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a messy braid streaked with pine sap, was a betrayal. He felt hot, stupid, half-disgusted with himself for the way his pulse picked up when she held a peach slice out to him, her fingers brushing his for half a second when he took it. He could feel the rough callus on the side of her index finger, the kind you get from turning thousands of book pages, and the contact sent a jolt up his arm he hadn’t felt in decades.
The peach was sweet, warm, juice running down his chin, and Mara laughed when he fumbled for a napkin. She sat down on the curb next to him, close enough that her knee pressed firmly against his jeans through the thin fabric of her linen pants, and nodded at the half-empty beer in his hand. “You don’t have to avoid me over that bird book, you know,” she said, picking at a loose thread on her pants. “I found a second copy in a box of donations last month. I didn’t even care that you lost it. I just thought it was funny how fast you’d cross the street when you saw me coming.”
Rafe blinked, heat crawling up his neck. He’d thought he was being subtle. He opened his mouth to make an excuse, to say he was busy, that he had a lot of projects around the house, but the words died in his throat when she turned to look at him, her dark eyes steady, no teasing left in her face. “I know what it feels like,” she said quietly, picking up another peach slice. “I spent three years after my ex left feeling like I wasn’t allowed to have fun, like I owed it to the version of my life that fell apart to be miserable. I see that same look on you every time you think someone might ask you to do something that isn’t fishing or fixing bird blinds.”
The confession hit him like a punch to the chest. He’d spent so long locked in his own head, so convinced his guilt was unique, that he hadn’t stopped to think anyone else might get it. He stared at his scuffed work boots, at the dandelions pushing up through the cracks in the asphalt, and when he reached for another peach slice, he didn’t pull away when his hand brushed hers again. He laced his fingers through hers for three slow heartbeats, callus to callus, and waited for the guilt to hit, waited for the voice in his head to tell him he was doing something wrong. It didn’t come.
He looked up at her, and she was smiling, soft this time, no teasing. “The pileated woodpeckers are nesting in the stand of firs right behind my property,” she said, squeezing his hand once before letting go to wipe peach juice off her wrist. “I got a spare pair of binocs. If you don’t have plans Saturday, we could go look for them. I won’t even make you pay late fees on the book.”
Rafe laughed, a rough, rusty sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months. “Yeah,” he said, no hesitation, no overthinking, no mental list of excuses he could use to back out later. “That sounds good.”
Mara stood up, brushing grass off her pants, and squeezed his shoulder before she turned to head back to the grill for another beer. Rafe sat there for another ten minutes, sipping his now-warm beer, watching fireflies blink on across the empty lot at the end of the block, the sound of a 90s country track drifting from the speaker by the cornhole set. He picked up the last peach slice from the plate she’d left next to him, bit into it, and wiped the juice off his chin with the sleeve of his Carhartt.
