Clay Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service wildfire crew lead, leans against a splintered pine fence post at the county fire department’s annual summer fundraiser, a sweating can of pale ale loose in his grip. He only showed up because his old crew partner Jim begged, said the food was free and the beer was cheaper than anything at the dive bar downtown. For seven years, since his wife Linda died of ovarian cancer, he’s avoided crowded events like this, hated the forced small talk, the pitying looks from people who still ask if he’s “seeing anyone yet.” His biggest flaw, the one he’ll never admit out loud, is that he’s spent the better part of a decade clinging to grudges and grief like they’re the only things keeping him anchored to the ground. He’s spent 20 years hating every county commissioner that’s held office, each one slashing his crew’s budget year after year until he quit three years back, too fed up to fight suits that wouldn’t know a fire line from a golf course fairway.
The air smells like grilled bratwurst slathered in onion mustard, diesel fumes from the fire truck parked by the entrance, and the sharp, sweet scent of pine oozing from the fence post behind him. A group of kids screams as they bounce on the inflatable obstacle course by the band stage, the lead singer fumbling through an off-key cover of a 1992 Travis Tritt track. He’s half considering bumming a cigarette off Jim and heading home when she steps into his line of sight.
She’s Mara Hale, 49, the new county commissioner elected six months prior on a wildfire mitigation platform, the only one who’d ever bothered to mention the understaffed local fire crews in her campaign ads. He’d snort at the sight of her, usually, but he freezes when she walks straight for him, work boots caked in mud, dark hair pulled back in a messy braid streaked with one thick strand of silver, no makeup except a faint swipe of rose lip balm that glints in the golden hour sun. She stops six inches from his boots, close enough that he can smell cedar shampoo and the faint, sharp tang of pine sap on her flannel shirt, the same weight and weave of the ones he wears every day.
He opens his mouth to make a snarky comment about another suit slumming it with the voters, but she beats him to it, holding out a calloused hand, grinning so the corners of her hazel eyes crinkle. “Clay Bennett. I’ve been looking for you for three weeks. Pulled all your old crew reports when I was drafting the new mitigation budget. You once called a past commissioner a ‘spineless pencil pusher’ in a public meeting, right?”
He blinks, taken off guard, and shakes her hand. Her grip is firm, her palm rough like she spends more time digging test fire pits in national forest land than sitting behind a desk. The accidental brush of her wrist against his sends a jolt up his arm he hasn’t felt in years, and he yanks his hand back like he touched a hot stove, face heating up. He’s equal parts furious that she dug up his old meeting comments, and weirdly flattered that she bothered to look for him at all. Disgust wars with something lighter, warmer, in his chest, and he hates it. He’d planned to turn down whatever request she has before she even opens her mouth, but he finds himself leaning in instead, crossing his arms over his chest.
She laughs, low and warm, like she can tell exactly what he’s thinking, and nods at the beer in his hand. “That’s the good stuff, right? The microbrew from the brewery out by the national forest? I tried to get them to cater this thing, but the chief said they were too expensive.” She reaches past him to grab a stack of napkins off the fence post behind him, her shoulder brushing his bicep, and he can feel the heat of her through his worn shirt. When she pulls back, a piece of her braid falls over her shoulder, and she tucks it behind her ear, holding eye contact the whole time, no awkward looking away, no performative politician smile.
He finds himself telling her about the time he snuck a case of that same beer into the fire camp during the 2017 Eagle Creek fire, how they drank it after getting the fire 100% contained, covered in ash and soot, too tired to even stand. She laughs so hard she snorts, and he smirks, surprised at how easy it is to talk to her, how she doesn’t flinch when he rants about the past commissioners cutting his crew’s overtime pay so they could afford a new marble conference table for the county office.
Some drunk guy in a college football jersey stumbles past, slamming into her shoulder, and she loses her balance, falling forward into his chest. He catches her automatically, his hands wrapping around her waist, and her hands fly up to his biceps, her fingers pressing into the muscle under his shirt. For three seconds, neither of them moves, the noise of the fundraiser fading into the background, and he can feel her heart beating fast against his chest, the faint scent of her lip balm mixing with the beer on his breath. She pulls back first, cheeks pink, and brushes dirt off her jeans, grinning like she’s not embarrassed at all.
“Look,” she says, leaning in so he can hear her over the band, “I’m not here to schmooze you for votes. I’m offering you a job leading the new volunteer fire mitigation crew, twice the budget your old crew had, no red tape, no stupid meetings unless you want to come. But if you say no, I get it. I just thought you’d be the best person for the job.” She pauses, tilting her head, and adds, quiet enough only he can hear, “Also, if you’re not busy tomorrow morning, I know a diner off the highway that makes the best bacon pancakes west of the Cascades. No work talk, unless you want to. I’d like to hear more about that time you put a dead skunk in a county commissioner’s work truck.”
He snorts, shaking his head, and for the first time in seven years, he doesn’t even think about saying no. He doesn’t think about grief, or grudges, or how stupid he thinks dating at his age is. He just nods, and gives her his number, scribbled on a crumpled beer-stained napkin he pulls out of his pocket. She tucks it into the breast pocket of her flannel, and squeezes his wrist once, light and intentional, before turning to walk toward the stage, where the chief is calling her up to give a speech.
He watches her walk away, takes a long sip of his beer, and feels Jim clap him on the back from behind, whooping about how he knew Clay still had it in him. He doesn’t bother to argue. He tugs his old flip phone out of his pocket, sets a reminder for 8 a.m. the next morning, and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, smiling to himself like an idiot. A pine needle falls from the fence above him, landing in his hair, and he doesn’t even notice it.
