Javier “Javi” Ruiz, 52, retired U.S. Forest Service wildfire hotspot analyst, leaned his hip against a weathered cedar picnic table at the Deschutes County volunteer fire department’s annual summer fundraiser, calloused fingers curled around a sweating hazy IPA. He’d almost skipped the event, same as he’d skipped every fire-adjacent gathering for the last 11 years, guilt coiled tight in his chest every time he smelled diesel and chain smoke and remembered Manny. The only reason he’d showed was the fundraiser’s goal: new thermal cameras for ground crews, the exact kind that might have pulled Manny out of the 2012 Bend Complex blaze before the blowup hit. He’d donated half his monthly pension check earlier that afternoon, figured he owed Manny that much at least.
The bluegrass band off by the beer tent cranked up a fast fiddle tune, kids with neon glow sticks darted between picnic tables, and the air smelled like grilled bratwurst, pine resin, and citronella torches keeping the mosquitoes at bay. Javi was halfway through his second beer, debating bailing early to head back to his off-grid cabin, when he spotted her. He’d know that crooked, gap-toothed smile anywhere, same as Manny’s. Lila, Manny’s little sister. Last time he’d seen her, she was 22, puffy-eyed in a black dress at Manny’s funeral, too quiet to say more than a quiet “thank you” when he handed her a folded flag from the forest service. Now she was 33, lean and sun-kissed, wearing a frayed Forest Service trail crew denim shirt, work boots caked in mud, a faint scar slicing through her left eyebrow that Javi remembered Manny bragging about getting when he dared her to climb a 60-foot Ponderosa pine when she was 10.
She spotted him a second later, and her grin widened. She wove through the crowd, hips bumping picnic table edges, and stopped so close to him he could smell citrus shampoo and cedar sap on her clothes. “Javi Ruiz. I thought you were hiding up in those mountains for good.” Her voice was low, rough from years of yelling over chainsaws and trail crew radios, and she leaned in to be heard over the fiddle, her shoulder brushing his bicep through his faded fire service hoodie. The contact sent a jolt up his spine he hadn’t felt since before Manny died, and he tensed up for half a second, half ready to mumble an excuse and bolt.
He didn’t, though. He handed her a spare beer he’d grabbed for the old fire chief who never showed, and their fingers brushed when she took it. Her hands were calloused too, same as his, crisscrossed with tiny scrapes from trail work. They talked for 20 minutes first about stupid, surface stuff: the lousy summer rain totals, the hiker that got lost in the Three Sisters Wilderness the week prior, the way the bluegrass band’s fiddle player was half drunk and missing every third note. The whole time she leaned in closer than she needed to, held eye contact a beat longer than polite, her knee knocking against his under the table every time someone walked past and jostled the bench.
The guilt hit him sharp, right in the ribs, when she laughed loud at a dumb joke he made about Manny’s terrible camp cooking. He had no right to be here, laughing with Manny’s little sister, feeling the warm tingle of attraction when he was the one who’d signed off on Manny going into that burn zone 11 years prior. He’d replayed that radio call a thousand times, Manny saying he was fine, he had the hiker, he was heading out, right before the wind shifted and the comms went dead. He’d spent 11 years telling himself he didn’t deserve anything good, let alone the way Lila was looking at him right now, like she saw past the guilt and the rough edges and the cabin he hid in all year.
She must have seen the shift in his face, because she leaned in even closer, their faces only a foot apart now, the noise of the fundraiser fading to a hum in the background. “I never blamed you, you know.” Her voice was soft, so quiet he almost missed it. “Found Manny’s old incident reports last year when I was going through his storage unit. He begged you to let him go in, didn’t he? Said you tried to talk him out of it three times.” Javi’s throat went tight, and he nodded, too choked up to speak. She reached across the table, her hand resting lightly on his forearm, the weight of it warm and solid through the fabric of his hoodie. “I’ve been trying to find you for three years to tell you that. Was too scared you’d run before I could get it out.”
The fiddle band switched to a slow, waltzing tune, the sun dipping below the pine line, painting the whole beer garden pink and gold. Javi stared at her, at the scar on her eyebrow, at the same crinkles around her eyes that Manny had when he smiled, and for the first time in 11 years, the guilt didn’t feel big enough to outrun the quiet, warm pull in his chest. He laced his fingers through hers where they rested on his arm, and she didn’t pull away.
He asked her if she wanted to head down to the 24-hour taco stand on the edge of town, the one Manny used to drag the whole crew to after 12-hour shifts on fire lines, and she nodded, grinning so wide the gap between her front teeth showed. They walked out of the beer garden together, his hand brushing the small of her back when they stepped over a loose curb, and she leaned into the touch, her shoulder pressing against his chest as they walked. The cool mountain air bit at his cheeks, and for the first time in 11 years, he didn’t feel the urge to run from something good.
