Cole Hathaway, 58, retired Yellowstone park ranger, leans against a splintered pine picnic table at the local VFW’s monthly fish fry, sweat beading along the edge of his worn USFS ball cap. The air reeks of burnt hushpuppies, diesel from the portable fryers, and coconut tanning lotion from the group of retirees sunning themselves at the next table. He’s avoided this event for two weeks, ever since his granddaughter Lila’s graduation party, where he caught himself staring so long at her former biology professor that Lila elbowed him in the ribs and teased him for being a creep. He’d felt guilty for days after, like he was betraying Jan, his wife of 34 years, who’d died of ovarian cancer 18 months prior. His whole adult life he’d prioritized everyone else’s comfort over his own, to the point he’d lie about his aching knees just to avoid making anyone adjust their plans, and this felt like the most selfish urge he’d ever had.
The dessert line moves slow, and by the time he reaches the front, his paper plate holding half a catfish filet is sticking to his calloused fingertips. Lara looks up from cutting peach pie, grinning so wide the crinkles at the corners of her eyes deepened. She’s wearing a cutoff denim work shirt, no sleeves, the sunflower tattoo on her left bicep faded from too much time in the sun, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid strung with a few stray oak leaves. “You finally showed up,” she says, wiping her hands on her cutoffs. “I thought you were avoiding me after the graduation party.” He flushes, and she laughs, sliding a thick slice of pie across the table. Their hands brush when he grabs it, the rough callus on her palm catching on his, and a jolt zips up his arm so sharp he almost drops the plate. He mumbles a thanks, already turning to walk away, but she calls him back, leaning over the table far enough that her shoulder presses against his upper arm.
He can smell lavender shampoo under the fried food scent, faint and sweet, and he has to force himself not to lean in closer. She says she’s doing field research on native Florida ferns at Hillsborough River State Park next weekend, all her grad students are busy with finals, and she doesn’t want to hike alone and risk running into a water moccasin or getting lost on the back trails. She heard he knows trail safety better than anyone, Lila told her he once carried an injured hiker six miles out of Yellowstone in a snowstorm. His first instinct is to say no. He’s 16 years older than her, everyone in their small suburban circle knows them only as Lila’s grandpa and Lila’s teacher, and he doesn’t want to give the guys at the VFW anything to gossip about, doesn’t want to feel like he’s doing something wrong by wanting to spend time with her.
She must see the conflict on his face, because she snorts, swatting his arm lightly. “Relax, I already cleared it with Lila. She said you’re the only guy around here who won’t spend the whole hike hitting on me or complaining about his knees.” That makes him laugh, because she’s right, his knees do ache most days, but he’s not that much of a curmudgeon. He agrees before he can talk himself out of it, and she lights up, scribbling her phone number on a napkin and shoving it in his flannel shirt pocket.
The hike is hotter than he expects, humid enough that his t-shirt is stuck to his back by mile two. She chatters the whole time, pointing out different fern species, explaining how they reproduce, and he’s half listening, half watching the way her braid swings when she bends down to take a soil sample. Halfway up the bluff trail, she trips over an exposed cypress root, and he reaches out on instinct, catching her around the waist to yank her back before she falls into a patch of poison ivy. Their faces are three inches apart, he can see flecks of gold in her brown eyes, and before he can think better of it, he kisses her.
He yanks back immediately, stammering an apology, saying he didn’t mean to, that he’s too old for this, that he shouldn’t have crossed a line. She laughs, leaning into him instead of pulling away, and says she’s been dropping hints for three months, she thought he’d never get the memo. She says Lila even told her to make the first move if he was being too stubborn, that Jan would have wanted him to stop moping and find someone to laugh with. He freezes, because he never told anyone Jan had said exactly that to him, three days before she died, when he’d told her he’d never love anyone else.
They finish the hike slow, stopping every few minutes so she can take samples, their hands brushing every time they pass a field notebook or a water bottle back and forth. On the way back to town, they stop at a dive bar off the highway, the air inside smelling like fried pickles and old beer, Johnny Cash playing low on the jukebox. They sit in a booth in the back, their knees brushing under the table the whole time, he orders a draft beer, she orders a whiskey sour, and they split an order of pulled pork sliders. When he picks up a slider, a drop of barbecue sauce drips on his thumb, and she reaches across the table, wraps her fingers around his wrist, and licks the sauce off slow, her eyes never leaving his.
He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t overthink what the guys at the VFW will say, doesn’t feel that sharp twist of guilt in his chest for the first time in 18 months. He lifts his beer to his mouth, hides a smile behind the rim, and flags the waitress down to order another round.
