Rafe Jimenez, 59, retired wildland fire crew boss, leaned against the scaly bark of a ponderosa pine and stared at the scuffed toes of his work boots, half-wishing he’d bailed on the town block party like he’d planned to. His neighbor Marnie had banged on his door at 4 p.m. holding a six pack of cheap lager, called him a hermit, and all but dragged him down the dirt road to the town square. The air reeked of charcoal, grilled bratwurst, and the sickly sweet cherry Kool-Aid the local 4-H kids were selling out of a dented cooler. A terrible cover band on the makeshift stage fumbled through a 1998 Tim McGraw deep cut, the lead singer’s voice cracking on the high notes. He twisted the beer bottle in his hand, the paper label sticky with sweat, and debated sneaking out before the fireworks started.
He didn’t see her coming until her boot caught on a half-buried pine root at his feet. She yelped, the paper plate of elote she was holding tilting so far a dollop of chili-lime crema almost slid off onto her cutoffs, and he reacted on instinct, reaching out to catch her elbow. His calloused fingers wrapped around the warm, soft skin of her forearm, and she steadied herself, laughing so hard her nose crinkled. “Whoa, thanks. That root’s been out to get me all night.” She smelled like coconut sunscreen and roasted chili, the kind that makes your eyes water a little if you stand too close to the grill. He let go of her arm fast, like he’d been burned, and shifted a foot back to put space between them. She was new, he knew that, moved into the old Henderson cabin three miles up the road from his place two months prior. He’d waved at her from his truck once when he was driving out to do fire mitigation on national forest land, that was the only interaction they’d had before now.
She didn’t take the hint to leave. She leaned against the pine next to him, close enough that her shoulder almost brushed his bicep, and took a bite of her elote, crumbs of cotija cheese sticking to her lower lip. “I’m Clara. Moved here from Chicago in May. Everyone keeps telling me I’m crazy for leaving the city for a town with one stop sign and no good coffee shops.” He grunted, took a sip of his beer. “Coffee’s not that bad. Diner on main makes a mean cold brew.” She raised an eyebrow, and he realized he’d said more than three words to a stranger in longer than he could remember. He’d closed up shop pretty much after his wife Leah died in a car crash eight years prior, spent most of his days alone fixing up his cabin, clearing dead trees, volunteering on the local volunteer fire crew. He’d gotten used to the quiet, had even started to like it, even if Marnie kept nagging him to “get back out there.” He was hyper-aware the whole block was probably glancing their way, the small town gossip mill already spinning about the reclusive widower talking to the new city transplant, and part of him wanted to bolt just to avoid the questions.
They talked for 40 minutes, he realized later, when the sun dipped below the mountains and the sky turned that soft bruised purple that only happens at 9,000 feet. He shifted closer to her at some point, not on purpose, just so he could hear her over the band and the yelling kids running around with glow sticks. Their knees knocked when they sat down on a splintered picnic bench to watch the pre-fireworks trivia contest, and she didn’t move away, just laughed and said he had legs like a tree trunk. She brushed a pine needle off the sleeve of his well-worn fire crew flannel later, her fingers lingering on the fabric for half a second, and he felt the heat of her touch all the way down to his bones. He kept waiting for that familiar twist of guilt in his gut, the one that usually popped up when he so much as thought about talking to a woman who wasn’t Marnie, but it didn’t come. All he could focus on was the way she kept holding his gaze when she talked, like she actually cared what he had to say, not just asking him out of politeness because he was the local ex-fire guy.
The first firework went off with a deafening crack, painting the sky bright red, and the crowd around them cheered. Everyone surged forward a little to get a better view, and Clara stumbled into him, her chest pressing against his arm for a split second before she caught herself. She didn’t step back. She tilted her head up to look at him, the blue and white bursts of the fireworks painting streaks across her face, and she said, quiet enough only he could hear over the noise, “I was really scared I’d come to this thing alone and stand in a corner all night. I’m glad I tripped over that stupid root.” He stared at her, his throat tight, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t overthink it. He reached up, brushed a strand of wind-tousled brown hair out of her face, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek. She didn’t flinch, just smiled, and leaned into his touch a little.
He nodded, stepped up onto the porch next to her, and his hand brushed hers when she reached for the doorknob.
