Rafe Marlow, 61, gripped the lukewarm can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in his calloused hand, dented metal digging into the scar across his palm from a 2007 wildfire accident. He’d spent eight years avoiding events like this, ever since his wife Elara died in a head-on crash with a drunk driver outside Hamilton. His custom fly rod building business kept him busy enough out of town that he only came into Missoula once a week for epoxy and brass fittings, never stayed long enough to grab a burger at the diner, never made small talk, never held anyone’s eyes long enough to get the pitying “how you holding up?” question he hated more than rod blanks that split mid-carve. Jake, his old smokejumper crew chief, had frog-marched him to the Fourth of July street fair an hour prior, saying if he spent one more holiday holed up in his workshop listening to 90s country alone, the local bear population was gonna start leaving him casseroles on his porch.
The air reeked of grilled bratwurst and cotton candy, the distant shriek of kids on the rickety portable Ferris wheel cutting through the twang of a local cover band playing John Mellencamp. Rafe was three sips in and already mapping his escape route when he spotted her. Leaning against the side of the peach cobbler food truck, sun gilding the silver streaks threading through her dark chestnut hair, wearing a sunflower print cotton dress that hit just above her knees, a faint scar snaking around her left wrist from the 1998 rafting trip he’d taken Elara and her little sister on, the time Lila had tried to jump from the raft to pet a deer on the bank and sliced her wrist open on a jagged rock.
He froze. He hadn’t seen Lila in 20 years, not since his wedding, when she’d been 20 years old, loud, reckless, had snuck him a shot of bourbon before the ceremony and joked she knew he was nervous enough to throw up on the pastor’s shoes. Now she was 54, laugh lines fanning out from the corners of her hazel eyes, same dimple in her left cheek that Elara had, but her laugh was lower, rougher, when the guy running the food truck handed her a cup of lemonade and she threw her head back laughing at a joke he’d made.
She looked up, caught his gaze, and held it two full seconds longer than polite. Her smile softened, not pitying, not awkward, just warm, and she pushed off the side of the truck, walking straight for him through the crowd. She didn’t look away once. A group of teens running with glow sticks jostled her a foot from him, and she stumbled forward, her bare arm brushing his, the rough callus on her palm from gardening scraping his forearm for half a second before she steadied herself. Rafe could smell lavender lip balm and pine soap on her, none of the cloying flowery perfume that gave him a headache. “Rafe Marlow,” she said, grinning, “I heard you were hiding out up in the hills here. I run the community garden plot three miles from your workshop, been here six months, didn’t wanna bug you till you were ready.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say for a second, his chest tight, half guilt, half something warmer than the summer heat, half disgust at himself for even noticing how the sun hit the freckles across her nose. This was Elara’s little sister. He was supposed to think of her like family, not notice the way her dress fit, not feel his pulse jump when she leaned in a little closer to hear him over the band, her shoulder pressing to his bicep, because a group of parade marchers went past blowing plastic trumpets. She told him she still had the fly rod he’d carved for her 21st birthday, used it every weekend she fished the Bitterroot, had caught a 28 inch brown trout on it last month. He’d forgotten he’d even made that rod till she said it, the memory popping up sudden, sharp, warm.
The first firework went off overhead, red, painting the sky, the crowd around them cheered, people surged closer, and Lila stumbled again, this time her hand landing on his chest to steady herself, her fingers splayed over the worn cotton of his flannel shirt. He didn’t move. He looked down at her, her eyes glinting with the light of the next firework, blue this time, and she didn’t pull her hand away. “Elara used to say you were too stubborn for your own good,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear, “she used to joke if anything ever happened to her, I was the only one tough enough to yank you out of your hole.”
Guilt curled in his gut, hot, then he thought about the last conversation he’d had with Elara, a week before she died, she’d said Lila was thinking of moving out west, how she’d always liked him, he’d laughed and said she was always welcome. He didn’t feel disgusted anymore, didn’t feel like he was betraying anyone, just felt like for the first time in 8 years, he wasn’t carrying the weight of his grief like a lead vest. He lifted his hand, covered hers where it still rested on his chest, and brushed his thumb over the scar on her wrist, the same one he’d wrapped a bandana around 25 years prior on that river bank. She shivered a little, didn’t pull away.
The last of the opening firework burst overhead, gold, raining embers drifting down over the pine trees lining the edge of the fairgrounds. “I got a peach pie cooling on my counter,” she said, tilting her head up at him, “baked it this morning. You wanna come over? We can eat it, you can tell me I’m tying my flies wrong, like you always used to.”
Rafe nodded, tossed his empty beer can in the trash can by the sidewalk, held out his hand for her to take. She laced her fingers through his, her calloused palm fitting against his like they were made to. He walked her to his beat up 2008 Ford F150 parked two blocks over, the distant sound of the band still playing in the background, cool evening air biting at his neck after the heat of the day. He opened the passenger door for her, the faint glow of leftover firework embers drifting over the pine treetops as her sunflower dress brushed his forearm when she slid into the seat.
