Manny Ruiz, 62, retired wildland fire crew boss, leans against the dented front fender of his 2007 Ford F-150, a half-drunk Budweiser sweating through its label in his calloused right hand. He’d dragged himself to the VFW’s monthly fish fry only because the post was honoring the three crew members lost in the 2017 Tinder Fire, including his old partner of 19 years, Jesse Carter. He hasn’t set foot inside the VFW hall in three years, hates the way the guys clap him on the back and call him a hero, hates the pity in their eyes when they ask if he’s seeing anyone yet. Elaina, his wife of 34 years, died of breast cancer 8 years prior, and Manny’s spent every day since convincing himself any new connection, even a casual coffee with a friend, is a betrayal of the life they built together. It’s his dumbest, most stubborn flaw, and even his grown kids rib him for it, but he can’t shake the guilt.
The air smells like fried catfish, hickory smoke from the grill out back, and the sharp, sweet tang of ponderosa pine drifting in from the mountains west of town. String lights crisscross the gravel parking lot, casting warm gold glows over groups of guys in veteran caps, women hauling potato salad Tupperware, kids chasing each other with popsicles dripping down their wrists. He’s just about to finish his beer and head home when he sees her.
Clara Carter, Jesse’s ex-wife, 54, is leaning against the post of the hall entrance, talking to one of the volunteer cooks, her silver hoop earrings catching the light. They haven’t seen each other since Jesse’s funeral, when Manny handed her the folded American flag from the service and she’d squeezed his hand so tight her nails dug into his skin. He’d always had a stupid, unspoken soft spot for her, back when both their spouses were alive, the kind of thing he’d never admit out loud, the kind of thing that made him look away fast when she laughed too loud at one of his bad jokes at crew barbecues, that made him feel guilty for weeks after.
She spots him before he can duck behind his truck. A slow, lopsided smile spreads across her face, and she pushes off the wall, walking over in scuffed white cowboy boots, her dark denim jeans brushing the gravel. She stops so close he can smell lavender lotion mixed with the fried food in the air, so close her shoulder is almost touching his bicep. “Manny Ruiz. I thought that was you. You still look like you could outrun a wildfire if you had to.”
He snorts, shifting his weight so his boot scuffs a loose rock across the gravel. “Bullshit. My knees creak so loud when I climb stairs my neighbors think there’s a raccoon in the walls.” He holds up his beer can, and she reaches for it to read the label, her knuckles brushing his. The jolt goes all the way up his arm, hot and sharp, and he has to fight not to flinch. He’s suddenly hyper aware of every inch of space between them, of the way her dark hair has streaks of silver at the temples, of the faint laugh lines around her eyes.
The guilt hits him fast, heavy in his chest. This is wrong. Jesse was his best friend. Elaina loved Clara, used to have her over for wine nights when the guys were out on fire assignments. He shouldn’t be feeling this, shouldn’t be noticing how her shirt fits her shoulders, shouldn’t be wondering what it would feel like to tuck that strand of hair falling in her face behind her ear. He almost makes an excuse to leave, almost says he’s got a dog waiting at home (he doesn’t, he gave the dog to his daughter two years ago when he realized he was too lazy to walk it twice a day) but then she starts talking about Jesse, about how he used to come home from fires reeking of smoke and ash and demand she make him her famous chili, about how Elaina used to call her to complain that Manny was hiding his latest post-fire injury so he wouldn’t get benched.
They laugh, and she shifts closer, her shoulder pressing firm against his arm now. He doesn’t move away. She says she’s in town dropping her youngest off at Northern Arizona University, that she’s staying for the weekend before driving back to her place in Albuquerque. She nods at the road leading up to the San Francisco Peaks overlook, the spot Manny and Elaina used to go watch sunsets when they first moved to town. “You wanna drive up there? I haven’t seen the view in 10 years, and this fish fry grease is starting to clog my sinuses.”
He hesitates for two full seconds, the voice in his head screaming that this is a terrible idea, that he’s betraying two people he loved more than anything. But then he looks at her, at the way she’s biting her lip like she’s nervous he’ll say no, and the voice goes quiet. He nods, jerking his thumb at the passenger door of his truck. “Yeah. C’mon. I got a cooler of beer in the backseat.”
The drive up takes 15 minutes, the windows rolled down, the cool mountain air whipping through the cab. They don’t talk much, just listen to the old Johnny Cash CD Manny has stuck in the player. When they pull up to the overlook, the sky is streaked pink and tangerine, the red rock of Sedona glowing faint 30 miles south. They sit on the hood of the truck, passing a beer back and forth, their knees brushing every time one of them shifts.
She turns to him after a while, the sunset painting her cheeks pink. “You know, Jesse used to tell me he thought you and Elaina were the only two people on the planet who had a perfect marriage. I used to tell him nothing’s perfect, but he didn’t believe me.” She pauses, picking at the label on the beer can. “I think they’d both be happy we’re not spending the rest of our lives moping alone, you know?”
Manny doesn’t say anything. He reaches out, brushes the strand of hair falling in her face behind her ear, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her cheek. She leans into the touch, her hand coming up to rest on his wrist. They sit that way for a long time, watching the sun dip lower, the first stars starting to pop out in the darkening blue sky. When the last sliver of sun drops below the peaks, she laces her fingers through his, and he doesn’t pull away.
