Rafe Mendez, 53, retired U.S. Forest Service hotshot crew lead, had avoided the annual Prescott summer street fair for six straight years. The crowds, the forced small talk, the way every third person would ask how he was holding up after his wife’s passing—none of it felt worth the hassle. He’d only dragged himself into town that 94-degree afternoon to pick up a custom leather hat brim guard he’d ordered from the local saddle maker, designed to block the high desert sun off his scarred left forearm. The silvery, webbed scar ran from wrist to elbow, a souvenir from the 2020 Telegraph Fire that pushed him into early retirement two years ahead of schedule.
He cut through the food vendor row to skip the packed craft booths, boots kicking up loose gravel that stuck to the sweat dampening his calves. The air reeked of roasted green chiles, fried Oreos, and gasoline from the generator powering the mariachi band blaring off to his left. A kid darted past him holding a snow cone dripping neon blue syrup, and Rafe swerved to avoid him, catching his boot on a loose tent stake. He stumbled forward, his scarred forearm brushing the edge of a stacked display of glass pie tins, sending the top one wobbling.
A warm, throaty laugh pulled his gaze up before he could apologize. “Easy there, hotshot. Don’t go taking out my whole inventory before I even hit the lunch rush.”
It was Lila Marquez. He hadn’t seen her since the 2011 crew Christmas party, two weeks before she filed for divorce from Jake, his former crew second-in-command. She had streaks of silver threaded through her thick dark curls now, tied back with a faded red bandana, and a smudge of flour streaked high on her left cheek. She wore a cutoff denim shirt rolled to the elbows, the tops of freckled shoulders dusted pink from the sun, and when she leaned across the folding table to steady the wobbly pie tin, her denim sleeve brushed the sensitive raised edge of his forearm scar.
Rafe froze. For 12 years, he’d carried a stupid, unspoken crush on her, one he’d never breathed a word of to anyone, not even his late wife. He’d always written it off as a moral failure, a stupid lapse of judgment, and had gone out of his way to avoid any events she might attend even before his wife got sick. Guilt coiled tight in his chest, hot enough to compete with the desert sun, and he took a half step back, ready to mumble an apology and bolt.
“Wait, Rafe, right?” She leaned further over the table, close enough that he could smell coconut shampoo mixed with the sweet-tart tang of sour cherry pie filling wafting off the tins behind her. She didn’t pull her arm away, the rough edge of her sleeve still brushing his scar. “I remember you. Carried Jake three miles down the mountain when he broke his ankle on that 2010 prescribed burn. Never even complained about his dumbass jokes the whole way down.”
He nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah. That was me. You sell pies now?”
“Got sick of office work in Phoenix three years ago. Bought a little cottage outside Flagstaff, bake for farmers markets and fairs. It’s quiet.” She nodded at his scar, her honey-brown eyes not flinching away from the discolored skin the way most people’s did. “Retirement treating you okay? Jake told me you went off grid after the Telegraph Fire.”
“Fine. Quiet. Too quiet, some days.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he winced. He never told people that. Never admitted he spent most nights sitting on his porch staring at the stars, drinking lukewarm beer, wishing there was someone to talk to about anything other than fire line tactics and old crew stories.
A group of teens jostled past the booth, and one of them knocked into Rafe’s back hard enough that he pitched forward, his open hand landing flat on top of hers where it rested on the edge of the table. He froze again, ready to yank his hand away, but she didn’t move. He could feel the callus on her index finger from rolling pie crust, the thin layer of flour dusting her skin, the steady warmth of her palm under his.
The guilt bubbled up again, sharp and bitter. This is wrong, he told himself. You’re supposed to still be grieving. She’s your ex-coworker’s ex-wife. But the longer he held her hand, the quieter the voice got. She was looking up at him, no pity in her eyes, no expectation, just a soft little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“I had a crush on you, you know,” she said, so quiet he almost missed it over the trumpet blaring 20 feet away. “Back when we were both married. Never said anything. Figured it was just a stupid what-if.”
Rafe exhaled, slow, the tight coil in his chest unwinding all at once. He didn’t pull his hand away. “Me too. Felt like garbage about it for 12 years.”
She laughed, loud and bright this time, and pulled her hand back only to grab a paper plate and a plastic fork. She slid a fat slice of sour cherry pie across the table to him, topped with a dollop of fresh whipped cream, still warm enough that steam curled off the filling into the dry air. “On the house. Stay a while. We’ve got 12 years of stupid what-ifs to catch up on.”
Rafe pulled out the rickety plastic folding chair next to the booth and sat down, setting his hat on the ground next to his boot. He took a bite of the pie, the crust flaky, the filling sweet and sharp enough to make his eyes water a little. The mariachi band switched to a slower, softer cumbia, and a couple of older couples started dancing in the empty patch of gravel between booths. He looked over at Lila, who was wiping a smudge of pie filling off her chin with the back of her hand, and reached across the table, brushing the flour smudge off her cheek with his thumb.
