Manny Ruiz, 53, retired wildland firefighter turned custom fire pit builder, loitered by the harvest festival beer tent half-hidden behind a stack of hay bales, the scar slashing across his left cheek tingling in the crisp October wind. He’d only shown up to drop off the iron fire pit he’d donated for the raffle, planned to slip out before anyone could corner him into small talk about the summer’s record wildfires or his ex-wife Karen’s new boyfriend. The air reeked of fried dough, pine, and fermented apple cider, the bluegrass band on the main stage thumping a beat loud enough to rattle the fillings in his back teeth. He’d just grabbed a can of cherry lager and was weighing the pros of sneaking out to his truck when a voice cut through the noise, warm and sharp with amusement.
He turned to find Lila Marquez, Karen’s younger cousin, leaning against the hay bale two inches from his shoulder, a spiked cider in one hand and a half-eaten caramel apple in the other. He’d only met her twice before: once at his wedding 22 years prior, when she’d been a college kid with neon pink hair passing out jello shots, and once at Karen’s mom’s funeral three years earlier, when she’d hugged him so tight he could smell the lavender perfume on her sweater. She’d traded the pink hair for soft chestnut waves streaked with gray, had a tiny silver hoop through her left nostril now, and when she laughed at the dumbstruck look on his face, her shoulder brushed his bicep through his thick flannel shirt.
Manny’s first thought was a sharp, guilty lurch. Karen had never had a problem with him dating after their split, but her cousin felt like a line he shouldn’t cross, some unspoken family rule he’d be an idiot to break. He opened his mouth to mumble a generic greeting, but she cut him off, holding up her cider so the amber liquid sloshed near the rim. “Saw your name on the fire pit raffle ticket sign,” she yelled over the band, her face so close he could smell the cinnamon on her breath. “I bought ten entries. I’ve been following your Instagram for months, that pit you built for the state park campground? Fucking sick.”
He blinked, heat creeping up his neck. He’d set up the Instagram account on his daughter’s insistence six months prior, only posted photos of half-finished pits and stacks of split oak, had no idea anyone outside of local campground owners and regular firewood customers even looked at it. He took a sip of his beer to buy time, and when he reached out to take the extra cider she’d grabbed for him, their fingers brushed. His were calloused and rough from 25 years swinging axes and bending iron, hers soft but smudged with charcoal on the knuckle, and he had to fight the stupid urge to wrap his hand around hers completely.
They talked for 45 minutes, leaning closer as the sun dropped and the air grew colder, the hay bales blocking the worst of the wind. She told him she was a freelance graphic designer based in Chicago, was renting a cabin 20 minutes outside town for the week to get away from a nightmare client, had only come to the festival because her sister had begged her to tag along. He told her about the 2018 blaze that had left him with the cheek scar, when he’d run back into a burning trailer to pull out a family’s elderly golden retriever, and she nodded like she already knew the story, her eyes fixed on his face so intently he forgot to feel self-conscious about the thick, raised tissue. He kept waiting for the guilt to kick back in, for the voice in his head to remind him he was talking to his ex-wife’s cousin, that this was a terrible idea that would blow up his already messy co-parenting schedule, but the voice stayed quiet.
When the raffle was called over the loudspeaker, they both turned toward the stage, and Lila laced her fingers through his for half a second when they called her name for the grand prize: his fire pit. She whooped loud enough that the people next to them turned to look, then spun back to him, her cheeks pink from the cold and the cider, her grin so bright it made his chest feel tight. “Guess you’re gonna have to come install it at my cabin this weekend,” she said, her voice lower now, so only he could hear it. “I’m here till Thursday. No plans, unless you count re-watching all the Mad Max movies alone.”
Manny hesitated for half a beat, then nodded. He pulled out his beat-up old work phone, handed it to her, and when she typed her number in, her thumb brushed the edge of his scar, light as a feather. “Karen told me about that dog rescue, you know,” she said, handing the phone back. “Always thought that was the bravest thing I ever heard. Most guys would’ve left the dog to burn.”
He walked her to her car after that, their knuckles brushing every few steps as they crossed the grass lot dotted with crumpled candy wrappers and fallen maple leaves. He didn’t kiss her goodnight, didn’t push it, just waved when she pulled out of the parking lot, her hand hanging out the window to wave back.
By the time he got back to his workshop, the sun was fully down, the shop lights casting a warm yellow glow over the half-finished fire pit he’d been working on for a local campground. He pulled out his phone, pulled up her contact, typed a message that said I’ll bring the installation tools Saturday morning, plus a six pack of that cherry lager you said you liked. Ten seconds later, his phone pinged. He opened the text, found a photo of her holding up a bag of marshmallows and a box of graham crackers, grinning so wide her dimples showed. He leaned back against the workbench, took a sip of the leftover cider he’d stuffed in his coat pocket, and smiled for the first time in months without feeling like he had to hide it.
