Raymundo “Ray” Ortega, 53, retired wildland firefighter turned native tree nursery owner, leaned against the chipped cinder block wall of the Flagstaff rec center, sweating through the collar of his faded Carhartt work shirt. He’d skipped changing after splitting red oak all morning, work boots still caked in pine duff, because he’d only planned to grab a beer and leave before the small-town small talk started. The Fourth of July potluck hummed around him: kids screaming as they chased each other with sparklers, old men arguing about trout stocking limits, the sharp, sweet smell of grilled brats and cherry Kool-Aid hanging thick in the post-rain air. He’d noticed his new neighbor Clara the second she walked in, and had done his best to pretend he hadn’t. Everyone in town had made it clear she was off limits, only eight months out from losing her husband in a backcountry snowmobile crash, too raw for any kind of attention, especially from the reclusive guy who lived two parcels over and barely said two words to anyone.
She crossed the lawn toward him anyway, balancing a paper plate piled high with peach cobbler in one hand, a can of seltzer in the other, scuffed cowboy boots catching on the clover growing through the grass cracks. She tripped over a discarded folding chair leg halfway, stumbling forward, and Ray reacted on muscle memory, reaching out to steady her, his calloused palm wrapping firm around her bare elbow. The skin under his hand was warm, soft, dotted with freckles, and he could smell chamomile shampoo, the faint clean tang of veterinary clinic antiseptic, and ripe peaches clinging to her clothes. He snatched his hand back so fast he nearly knocked the seltzer out of her grip, mumbled a gruff apology, and stared at the dirt at his boots like it held the secrets of the universe. She laughed, a low throaty sound that didn’t match the high tinkly laughs of the other women at the potluck, and brushed grass off her faded denim dress. “You’re the first person in this town who hasn’t treated me like I’m made of blown glass the second I get within ten feet,” she said, and sat down on the concrete step next to him before he could think of an excuse to leave.
Their knees pressed together, the rough denim of his work jeans rubbing against the thinner fabric of hers, and he could feel the heat of her leg through the layers, sharp enough to cut through the chill of the evening air. She held the plate of cobbler out to him, stuck a plastic fork in the crust, and nodded at it. “Made it this morning. Peaches from the Camp Verde orchard. Don’t tell anyone I brought the good stuff only for the guy who’s been ignoring me since I moved in three months ago.” He took a bite, the buttery crust crunching between his teeth, the peaches warm, sweet with just enough tartness to make him wince a little, and he didn’t argue when she nudged his beer out of his hand to take a sip. She teased him about the stacks of firewood he’d left on her porch during the May power outage, about the time she’d watched him carry a fawn with a broken leg out of the old burn scar behind his property, about the way he sang old Johnny Cash songs loud enough to hear through the trees when he was planting saplings. For twelve years, he’d carried the weight of a fire that went wrong, a backburn he’d ordered that shifted with the wind and cost a 22-year-old kid on his crew two fingers, even though the official investigation cleared him of all fault. He’d kept to himself on purpose, convinced he was bad luck for anyone who got too close, and everyone in town had let him, until now.
The first firework went off overhead, bright purple, painting the underside of the low clouds neon, and she leaned in closer, her shoulder pressed firm to his, so he could hear her over the boom. “Everyone keeps telling me I should wait, that I’m not ready to be around anyone who isn’t bringing me a casserole and asking how I’m holding up,” she said, her breath warm against the side of his neck. She brushed a fleck of cobbler crust off his chin with her thumb, the pad of her finger lingering against the rough gray stubble on his jaw for a beat too long, and he didn’t pull away. “I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of people acting like my life ended when his did.” He told her about the fire, about the kid, about the guilt he still carried every time he lit a match, and she didn’t look at him like he was broken, didn’t give him the pitying looks everyone else gave him when they found out why he’d left the forest service. She just nodded, laced her fingers through his, her smaller hand soft but firm in his, and said grief didn’t mean you didn’t get to want things, didn’t mean you had to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for things you couldn’t control.
They sat there through the whole fireworks show, their hands laced together, passing the half-drunk beer back and forth, only letting go when the final red burst faded into the dark and the crowd around them cheered. She stood up first, wiping grass off the back of her dress, and held her hand out to him, the glow of the tiki torches along the sidewalk gilding the edges of her hair. “I’ve got fresh peach pie in my fridge, and better coffee than the swill they’re serving here,” she said, tilting her head toward the parking lot. He took her hand, his calloused palm wrapping tight around hers, and followed her through the crowd of laughing, hugging neighbors, no one even glancing their way long enough to stare.
