Rafe Escobar is 61, a retired smokejumper who now picks up occasional wildfire mitigation consulting gigs for Idaho state parks. He’s lived in his quiet Boise suburban neighborhood for two years, and until the last Saturday in July, he’d skipped every block party, HOA meeting, and neighborhood potluck on the calendar. His wife Ellen died of ovarian cancer eight years prior, and he’d built a solid little routine for himself: hike the foothills three mornings a week, restore his 1978 Ford F150 in the garage after work, pick his granddaughter Mia up from school every Wednesday. He’d turned down so many casserole drop-offs and set-up attempts from the neighborhood’s more meddlesome residents that he’d earned a reputation as the block’s resident grumpy recluse. The only reason he showed up to the July block party at all was because Mia begged him, bouncing on her toes as she babbled about the new neighbor’s famous elote.
He’d planned to stay ten minutes max, grab a corn cob, say hi to a few people, and head home to watch the Mariners game. The air was thick with cut grass and charcoal smoke, the cheap can of domestic beer in his hand warm and sticky with condensation. He leaned against a split-rail fence, avoiding eye contact with anyone who looked like they wanted to make small talk, until the sharp, savory scent of grilled corn, chili powder, and lime cut through the smoke. He followed the smell to a folding table at the end of the block, and when he reached for a stack of paper napkins, his hip knocked into the woman standing next to him. She was wearing frayed cutoff jean shorts and a faded Johnny Cash tee, her sun-bleached blonde hair pulled back in a messy braid, freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks. Her bare leg was warm against his denim-clad calf, and she didn’t step back, just tilted her head up to grin at him, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “Easy there, tough guy. I only got three dozen ears left, don’t go knocking ‘em all in the dirt.”
Her name was Lena, she’d moved into the blue house three doors down six weeks prior, ran a vintage western wear shop downtown. Rafe felt his neck flush, already mentally drafting an excuse to leave, until she nodded at the faded smokejumper patch sewn to the front of his work flannel. “I saw you hauling that dead ponderosa off the HOA trail last Saturday. Figured you were either ex-fire or just really committed to annoying the board. They’ve been complaining about that tree for three months.” He snorted, taking a bite of the elote she handed him, chili powder stinging the tip of his tongue, lime juice dripping down his wrist. “Board can kiss my ass. It was a fall hazard. Someone’s kid could’ve gotten hurt.”
He told himself he should leave, that he was being stupid even standing here talking to her, that he was fine alone, that letting anyone new in would only mess up the quiet life he’d worked so hard to build. He’d spent eight years telling himself he didn’t need anyone else, that wanting anything more than his truck and his hikes and his granddaughter was a betrayal of Ellen. But then Lena grabbed his wrist, wiping the lime juice off his forearm with a napkin, her calloused thumb brushing the thick, silvery scar on his forearm from a 2009 Montana wildfire. He flinched, not from pain, but from the jolt that shot up his arm, straight to his chest. “That look like a bad one,” she said, soft, no curiosity dripping from the words, no invasive questions waiting behind them. “My brother was a hotshot crew leader. Died in a grass fire outside Twin Falls 10 years ago. I know how those scars stick around.”
No one had ever said that to him, not in eight years. Everyone else asked how he got it, if it hurt, if he still has nightmares. He stood there for a second, the hum of the block party fading into background noise, and when she invited him back to her garage to see the 1972 Bronco she was restoring, he didn’t hesitate.
Her garage was cool, shaded from the 90-degree heat, smelling like motor oil, coconut sunscreen, and the peach pie cooling on her workbench. She leaned over him to point at a crack in the engine manifold, her hair falling over his shoulder, the faint scent of lavender shampoo wrapping around him, her chest brushing his upper arm. She didn’t move away, just kept talking about the stubborn bolt she’d been trying to loosen for three days, and when she turned to face him, their noses were almost touching. “I asked about you, you know,” she said, voice low. “Half the single women on this block have been working up the nerve to bring you a lasagna for a year. I didn’t want to waste my time if you were just another boring guy who plays golf every weekend and complains about his ex.”
He didn’t say anything for a beat, fighting the voice in his head that screamed he was too old, too broken, that this would only end badly. Then he reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair off her face, his thumb grazing her freckled cheek. She leaned into the touch, her hand coming to rest on his chest, right over his heart, which was beating faster than it had in years. “I got a full set of half-inch drives in my truck,” he said. “I can help you get that bolt loose. If you let me stay for a margarita after.”
She grinned, squeezing his wrist before turning to grab her flashlight. They worked for an hour, passing tools back and forth, their hands brushing a dozen times, each small touch sending a little spark up his spine. When the bolt finally came loose, she whooped, clapping her hands before lacing her fingers through his for a quick squeeze. “C’mon inside,” she said, nodding toward the door to her house. “The pie’s probably cool enough to eat now. I got top shelf tequila, too.”
He followed her across the garage, pausing for half a second to glance at the sun streaming through the gap in the garage door, the faint sound of the block party’s speaker carrying through the cracks. The distant sound of pop music and kids laughing faded completely the second she pulled the garage door closed behind them.
