Roland Voss, 62, retired wildland fire crew supervisor, leaned his hip against the dented metal chili booth at the coastal town’s annual beer and oyster fest, wiping chili grease off his calloused palms on the thigh of his frayed Carhartts. He’d drawn the 2pm to 6pm shift volunteering for the local fire station, and the first three hours had blurred into a stream of sunburnt tourists asking if the three-alarm chili was “actually hot enough for a guy who fought forest fires” and teens sneaking samples before their parents could stop them. He’d planned to clock out the second his shift ended, drive the three minutes back to his bungalow, crack a cold IPA, and watch the Mariners get crushed by the Rangers like they did every other week.
He didn’t look up when he heard footsteps approach the booth, until a soft, familiar voice said, “Give me two samples, please. One for me, one for the rescue dog I’m carting around in my tote.”
Roland’s throat went dry. It was Elara Marlow, 58, the used bookstore owner who’d moved into the cottage two doors down three months prior. He’d avoided her for the most part, ever since his sister-in-law had dropped by for a visit two weeks prior, seen Elara leave a peach pie on his porch, and sniffed that “it’s a little soon to be entertaining strange women, don’t you think, Roland? Linda’s only been gone eight years.” The comment had settled in his chest like ash, mixing with the quiet, guilty spark he’d felt every time he saw Elara out walking her rescue hound, or hauling boxes of books into her store, the silver streaks in her auburn hair catching the sun.
He handed her the two small paper cups, his fingers brushing hers by accident. He felt the rough callus on her middle finger, the one she got from holding open hardcovers for hours at a time, and he pulled his hand back like he’d been burned. The air smelled like salt, grilled sausage, and the jasmine lotion she wore, faint enough that he’d only caught it once before, when he’d helped her carry a shelf into her store after a storm knocked her porch steps loose.
She laughed, low and warm, when she took a sip of the chili and coughed a little, fanning her face. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about the heat. I should’ve known. I saw all your fire crew patches on your jacket hanging by your front door last week. The 2018 Cascades fire? I read about that. Must’ve been hell.”
He blinked. No one had asked him about his fire days in years. Most people in town only saw him as the quiet widower who fixed lawnmowers for elderly neighbors and didn’t go to parties. He found himself talking before he could stop himself, telling her about the three weeks they spent camped out in the woods, sleeping on the ground, fighting the fire line for 16 hours a day, the way the sky had turned orange so bright you could read a book at midnight. She leaned against the booth counter, her forearm brushing his as she shifted her weight, holding his gaze the whole time, no polite half-smile, no glancing away to check her phone.
He was halfway through a story about a crew member who’d accidentally dropped a whole bag of marshmallows into the fire when a gust of wind blew off the ocean, snatching a stack of animal rescue flyers she’d set on the edge of the booth. Half of them landed in the giant pot of bubbling chili.
They both lunged at the same time. Roland grabbed for the stack, Elara leaned over the counter, and for two full seconds she was pressed against his chest, her shoulder firm against his sternum, he could feel the warmth of her through her thin linen button-down, the scent of jasmine and salt stronger now, her hair brushing his jaw. He froze, his hands hovering over her waist, every alarm in his head screaming that this was wrong, that he was betraying Linda, that everyone in the fest was watching and judging him.
She pulled back slowly, holding the half-dozen flyers she’d managed to snatch before they hit the chili, a tiny smirk on her face. She wiped a smudge of chili off the edge of his cheek with her thumb, her touch soft, deliberate. “You don’t have to be so scared of wanting something, Roland. No one’s keeping score.”
The words hit him like a bucket of cold water. He realized he’d spent eight years letting other people tell him how to grieve, letting guilt eat up every small moment of joy he’d tried to grab for himself, clinging to his loneliness like it was a tribute to the woman he’d loved. It wasn’t. Linda would’ve yelled at him for being so stupid, for letting a perfectly good peach pie go to waste because he was scared of what his sister-in-law would say.
He glanced at the clock on the fire station truck behind him. 5:58. His shift was two minutes from ending. “You got plans for dinner?” he asked, before he could talk himself out of it. “I was gonna grab an oyster basket from the stand down the way. Got enough for two.”
She grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Only if you let me buy the beer. And we stop by my booth first so I can drop these flyers off. And you tell me the rest of that marshmallow story.”
They sat on a weathered cedar picnic bench an hour later, the sun dipping low over the ocean, painting the sky pink and orange. Her rescue hound, a scruffy beagle mix, lay at their feet, chewing on a fried oyster shell Roland had given him. He let his knee rest against hers, no pulling back, no guilt, when she leaned over to show him a photo of the three-legged cat she’d just adopted from the rescue. She brushed a fleck of fried batter off his lip, and he didn’t flinch. He took a bite of the crispy, briny oyster, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel guilty for enjoying the taste.
