The October air bites at Elias Voss’s cheeks as he hefts the last stack of oak firewood off the bed of his 2006 Ford F-150 for Grand Marais’s annual harvest gala bonfire. At 57, the retired wildland firefighter’s left knee throbs with a dull, sharp pulse he’s gotten used to ignoring, but he hisses when he shifts his weight wrong on the frost-dusted grass. The bluegrass band on the small stage twangs through a Johnny Cash cover he hasn’t heard since his wife died eight years prior, and he wipes calloused hands on the thighs of his worn Carhartts, planning to grab a spiced cider and bolt before anyone ropes him into running the hayride. He’s never liked crowds, not since the fire department pushed him out after a falling tree mangled his knee during the 2018 Boundary Waters blaze. These days he’s just the quiet guy who drops off wood and leaves before small talk starts, too stubborn to accept help from anyone, convinced needing a hand equals being put out to pasture, useless.
He’s halfway to the cider stand when he sees her. Clara Marlow, 49, the county extension agent who moved to town 12 years ago, married to his old fire crew partner Jake until Jake left her for a 26-year-old park ranger last spring. He’s avoided her for six months, hit every time with the same stupid, guilty pull he’s felt since the first time Jake brought her to a crew cookout, when she laughed at his terrible pine beetle joke and handed him a beer so cold it made his fingers ache. He turns to walk the other way, but his knee locks up mid-step, and he stumbles, catching himself on a picnic table edge so hard his shoulder aches.
“Whoa, easy there.” Her voice is warm, the same low, honeyed tone he’s replayed in his head more times than he’d admit, and she’s right next to him, her shoulder brushing his bicep when she leans in to check if he’s okay. He can smell lavender shampoo mixed with cinnamon from the cider stand, and his throat goes dry. He tries to say he’s fine, to brush her off like he does everyone else, but she’s already got her hand wrapped around his forearm, fingers warm even through his thick jacket canvas, guiding him to sit on the bench. “That knee’s been acting up since the Boundary Waters fire, right? Jake mentioned it once.”
The name makes his jaw tighten. He doesn’t want to talk about Jake, not when he’s spent 12 years feeling like garbage for wanting his partner’s wife, not when Jake threw away 11 years of marriage like it was an empty beer can. He says as much, quiet, staring at the scuffed toes of his work boots, and she laughs, a soft, sharp sound. “Jake hasn’t gotten to have an opinion on anything in my life since I found his texts on our kitchen counter. I’ve been waiting for you to stop avoiding me, Elias.”
He looks up then, and she’s leaning against the table next to him, her face inches from his, eyes dark and warm, no trace of awkwardness or hesitation. The bluegrass band has switched to a slower track, couples dancing on the grass in front of the stage, no one paying them any mind. He reaches out slow, like he’s approaching a skittish deer, and brushes a strand of chestnut hair fallen in her face behind her ear. His fingers graze her cheek, and she leans into the touch, her hand coming up to cover his where it rests against her skin. “I thought it was wrong,” he admits, voice rough, like he’s been yelling over fire wind for hours. “Thought I was betraying him, even when he was being an idiot.”
She shakes her head, her thumb brushing over the scar on the back of his hand, the one he got pulling a family out of a burning cabin in 2019. “You’re not betraying anyone. I’ve had a crush on you since you carried my golden retriever out of that 2017 flood, remember? Jake was off fishing, you showed up with a boat and hauled him out soaking wet, didn’t even ask for a thank you.” He does remember, remembers the way she hugged him, her face pressed against his chest, how he’d gone home and taken a cold shower because he felt like a monster for liking the way she felt in his arms. He doesn’t hesitate anymore, leans in and kisses her, soft at first, then deeper when she tangles her fingers in the graying hair at the nape of his neck. She tastes like spiced cider and peppermint lip balm, and the ache in his knee fades to background noise for the first time all night.
They walk over to the bonfire together a few minutes later, her arm looped through his, taking most of his weight so he doesn’t put too much pressure on his knee. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t insist he can walk on his own the way he would with anyone else. They sit on a split log at the edge of the fire ring, and she pulls the knit wool scarf from around her neck, wrapping it tight around his throbbing knee to hold in the heat. No one stares, no one makes comments, most of the town already knew the two of them had been dancing around each other for years, even if neither would admit it. He rests his hand on top of hers where it lies on his knee, and lets the heat from the fire and her skin seep through the chill he’s carried in his bones for years.
