Clay Bennett, 58, retired Forest Service hotshot superintendent turned part-time gunsmith at Bend Outdoor Supply, had spent the last three months bitching about Mara Hale to anyone who would listen. The newly elected 54-year-old city councilor had spearheaded the ban on the town’s annual 4th of July community bonfire, citing extreme wildfire risk, and Clay had written her off as another out-of-touch bureaucrat who didn’t care about the town’s decades of tradition. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he’d shut himself off from any new connection entirely after his wife died of breast cancer in 2016, convinced any new person in his life would be a betrayal, or just more trouble than he was willing to handle. He’d left the VFW picnic an hour earlier, tired of listening to his old crew complain about the same ban, and had planted himself at a wobbly patio table at the tiny craft beer bar off Main Street, sipping a hazy IPA that sweated cold condensation down his knuckle.
The air hummed with the distant whine of fair rides and the sharp, sweet smell of fried dough drifting from the town square two blocks over. Cicadas buzzed loud in the ponderosa pines lining the sidewalk, and the sun hung low enough that the gold light gilded the edge of every passing person’s hair. He was halfway through his second beer when the patio went quiet for half a second, and he looked up to see Mara Hale standing three feet from his table, holding a canned seltzer, the only empty seat left in the whole space pushed up against his side. She wore a loose sleeveless linen button down the color of sage, a smudge of charcoal face paint smudged on her left forearm, sun streaks running through her auburn hair that was pulled back in a messy half-up style. She nodded at the empty seat. “Mind if I crash? Every other table is full, and my feet are killing me from walking the parade route three times.”
Clay grunted and nodded, turning his gaze back to his beer before he could say something rude he’d regret. He didn’t look at her for five full minutes, until she reached across the table to grab a crumpled napkin, and her elbow brushed the thick, ridged callus on his left forearm he’d gotten from a chainsaw accident on the 2019 Christmas fire. He flinched, not from pain, but from the shock of a warm, intentional-adjacent touch that wasn’t from a doctor or his sister patting his back at a holiday dinner. She pulled back fast, apologizing, and he waved it off, finally making eye contact. Her eyes were hazel, flecked with gold, crinkled at the corners like she laughed a lot, even if he’d only ever seen her stone faced at city council meetings.
“I know who you are,” she said, before he could say anything. “I’ve heard all the things you’ve said about the bonfire ban. You’re entitled to be mad. I get it, I grew up coming to those bonfires too.” She took a sip of her seltzer, leaning in a little so she didn’t have to yell over a group of kids screaming as they ran past with glow sticks. “My nephew was staying with me during the 2021 Twisted River fire. We lost the rental we were living in, and he still has panic attacks when he smells too much wood smoke. I couldn’t sign off on a 20 foot bonfire when the fire risk was listed as extreme, even if it made everyone in this town hate my guts.”
Clay’s throat went tight. He’d been on that crew, the one that pulled her 16 year old nephew out of the burning rental, remembered the kid’s wide, terrified eyes, the way he’d clung to Clay’s fire jacket so tight his knuckles were white. He felt stupid, suddenly, for all the shit he’d talked, for writing her off as a cold bureaucrat without asking a single question. The psychological twist hit him fast, sharp, the disgust he’d carried for months curdling into something softer, warmer, something he hadn’t felt in so long he almost didn’t recognize it: desire. She smelled like coconut sunscreen and peppermint gum, her voice a little rough from yelling over the parade announcer all afternoon, and when he made a dumb joke about the fire department’s terrible parade float that looked like a melted marshmallow, she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, and he found himself grinning back.
The first firework went off with a boom 10 minutes later, painting the sky bright pink, and the whole patio stood up to watch. Someone in the crowd behind them stumbled, slamming into Mara’s back, and she lost her balance, falling forward into Clay’s chest. His hands went to her waist automatically to steady her, her palms flat against his t-shirt under his open flannel, and they froze for three full seconds, the boom of the fireworks echoing in his ears, the red and blue light painting her face, her breath warm against his jaw. He could feel the rapid thud of her heart through her shirt, the rough linen fabric soft under his calloused fingers, and neither of them moved to pull away.
When the last firework faded, the crowd cheered so loud his ears rang, and she stepped back just far enough to look up at him, grinning, a faint pink flush high on her cheeks. “I pulled a permit for a small, contained fire at my place 10 minutes outside town,” she said, nodding toward the parking lot. “Got a cooler of IPA and a bag of s’mores supplies in the back of my truck. Could use someone who knows how to build a fire that won’t burn the whole county down, if you’re not busy.”
Clay nodded, grabbing his flannel off the back of his chair and slipping the worn leather work boots he’d kicked off under the table back on, his hands a little unsteady, like he was 17 again asking a girl to prom. He followed her through the dispersing crowd, stepping over discarded glow sticks and crumpled candy wrappers. His hand brushed the small of her back when she stepped over a curb piled high with empty soda cans, and she didn’t flinch away.
