Ron Mendez, 59, retired wildlife biologist who spent 32 years tracking gray wolf populations in the Superior National Forest, leaned against the cinder block wall of the VFW’s back patio, crumbs of fried walleye stuck to the cuff of his faded red flannel. He held a sweating plastic cup of Grain Belt Premium, the cold seeping through the thin plastic to numb his palm, and tuned out the group of old ice fishing buddies bickering two feet away about whose auger had died mid-drill the previous winter. He’d skipped the last three annual community fish fries, still sore from running into his ex-wife at the grocery store six months prior, but his neighbor had practically dragged him out the door, saying he was turning into a hermit who only talked to his two hound dogs. The air reeked of hot grease and lemon wedges, the jukebox inside blaring a Johnny Paycheck deep cut loud enough to rattle the screen doors.
He spotted her when she walked around the beer cooler, auburn hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid that fell over her shoulder, scuffed work boots caked with mud, wearing a flannel that was the exact same shade of blue as the one she’d worn to the 1988 county fair. He knew immediately who it was: Lena Hale, 54, the new county librarian, the younger sister of his high school sweetheart, the girl he’d only ever seen as the awkward 19-year-old who tagged along on their dates, rolling her eyes when he and her sister made out in the cab of his beat-up 1984 Ford F-150. His throat went dry. Her family had hated him back then, called him a reckless punk who’d get their oldest daughter killed driving too fast down back dirt roads, and he hadn’t spoken to anyone in the Hale family since his ex left for college in Oregon in 1990.
She did a double take when she saw him, pausing mid-step with a beer in her hand, then smiled, dimples popping in her cheeks, and walked over. She stopped close enough that he could smell lavender hand lotion under the fry grease and rain in the air, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ron Mendez. I’d know that scar above your eyebrow anywhere. You still have that beat-up truck?”
He laughed, the tight knot in his chest loosening a little. “Sold it three years ago. Got too many miles, rusted out so bad you could see the road through the floorboard.” When she leaned in to glance at the label on his beer, her knuckles brushed his wrist, light as a sparrow’s wing, and he felt a jolt run up his arm he hadn’t felt in at least a decade. She teased him about the time he’d crashed his truck into her family’s mailbox trying to sneak out after a date, and he admitted he’d snuck back the next weekend to replace it, too embarrassed to tell her dad what he’d done.
Part of him screamed to walk away. She was his ex’s sister, for Christ’s sake, that line was supposed to be off limits, and he’d spent 30 years avoiding anyone tied to that part of his life, convinced he was still the screw-up the Hales had thought he was. But he couldn’t stop staring at the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear when he told her about tracking a wolf pack 12 miles into the backcountry last spring, the way she laughed so hard at his story about a hound dog stealing a park ranger’s sandwich that she snort-laughed, and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
The sky opened up right as the VFW volunteers started folding up the folding tables, fat raindrops splattering the concrete, sending people scrambling for their cars. He offered to walk her to her Subaru, parked two blocks down by the old hardware store, and she nodded, grabbing his arm when she slipped on a puddle, her fingers curling around his bicep for a beat longer than she needed to. They ducked under the hardware store’s faded canvas awning to catch their breath, rain drumming so loud on the fabric they had to lean in close to hear each other.
“I had a huge crush on you back then, you know,” she said, so quiet he almost didn’t catch it over the rain. Her shoulder was pressed to his, damp from the drizzle, and he could feel the heat of her through their flannels. “My sister was an idiot to leave you. I thought you were the coolest guy I’d ever met.”
He froze, his brain going blank for a second. He’d never once guessed. He’d always thought she saw him as some dumb older kid who got on her nerves, who made her sit in the back of the truck for three hours on the way to the lake. He looked down at her, her cheeks pink, her eyes glinting, and he didn’t say anything for a long second, just reached up to brush a wet strand of hair off her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone.
He asked her if she wanted to get pie and coffee at the 24-hour diner three blocks over, said they had the best rhubarb pie in the county, and she nodded, grinning. They stepped out from under the awning into the soft rain, their hands brushing every few steps, until he laced his calloused, scarred fingers through hers, and she squeezed tight, no hesitation. The neon “OPEN” sign of the diner glowed pink half a block away, cutting through the gray drizzle.
