Rafe Mendez, 53, retired Forest Service hotshot crew superintendent, leaned his shoulder against a splintered pine picnic table and sipped his cold hazy IPA, the bitter citrus hop tang sharp on his tongue. He’d showed up to the annual local fire department fundraiser only because his old crew was running the brat grill, and he’d never been able to say no to a free brat and a chance to rag on the new 20-something recruits who thought they knew everything about fighting wildfire. He’d avoided the small crowd of town gossips who’d been trying to set him up with anyone single for the last eight years, ever since his wife Ellie died in a black ice crash on the highway into town. Stubbornness was his worst flaw; he’d spent decades refusing to ask for help when he was hauling 60 pounds of gear up a mountain side, and he’d carried that same stubbornness into his grief, convinced letting anyone new in would be a betrayal of the 22 years he’d had with Ellie.
He was mid-eye roll at a recruit’s overblown story about outrunning a flash fire when he saw her trip over the metal tent stake half buried in the gravel. She was the new part-time librarian, had moved to town six months prior, he’d seen her restocking the hiking guide shelf at the library twice, had nodded at her when he passed her walking her scruffy terrier on the trail behind his cabin, but had never spoken to her. He moved before he thought, catching her by the waist before she face-planted into the pile of fire prevention pamphlets stacked by the tent door. His calloused hand curled around the soft curve of her waist through her worn navy flannel, her palm pressed flat to his sun-worn t-shirt over his chest, and for half a second he could smell lavender hand cream and pine, the same scent Ellie used to tuck into her coat pockets in the winter. She laughed, a warm, throaty little sound, and steadied herself, her fingers brushing the scar on his left bicep he’d gotten from a falling branch on a fire in 2012. “Thanks,” she said, holding eye contact longer than casual, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, crinkled at the corners like she smiled a lot. “I swear those stakes are planted specifically to take out anyone who’s not paying attention.”
A group of kids ran past chasing a golden retriever, and one of them knocked her glass of lemonade off the table, the cold sweet liquid spilling right into his lap. She yelped, grabbing a handful of napkins from the dispenser, and leaned over to dab at the wet spot on his jeans, her hand brushing his thigh, and she froze when she looked up, their faces inches apart. “I know everyone in town has been trying to push us together because they feel bad for you,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear, over the hum of the country music playing on the speakers and the roar of the crowd. “But I’ve been asking about you because I saw you carry an old lady’s groceries up her porch last month, and you stop to pet every stray cat on Main Street, and I think you’re a lot softer than you pretend to be.”
The last of the guilt melted away then, and he laughed, a rough, rusty sound, he hadn’t laughed like that in years. He covered her hand with his, his calloused fingers wrapping around hers, and she didn’t pull away. “I’ve been avoiding you because I thought wanting to talk to you meant I was doing something wrong,” he said, honest, for the first time in a long time. “I was stupid.” She smiled, her thumb brushing the back of his hand, and shook her head. “You weren’t stupid. You were grieving.”
He asked her if she wanted to go get peach pie at the diner down the street when the fundraiser wrapped up, and she said yes, grinning so wide the corners of her eyes crinkled. He held the tent flap open for her when they left, their fingers brushing as she stepped past him, the cool evening air on his face, the weight of Ellie’s journal tucked under his other arm. He could hear her terrier barking from where she’d tied him to the bike rack outside, and she bent down to scratch his ears, her shoulder brushing his. When she stood back up, she slipped her hand into his, her palm warm against his, and he didn’t hesitate to lace their fingers together.
