Rafe Mendez, 53, retired wildland fire crew supervisor, dragged his boots up the gravel path to Muggs’ Bar’s 4th of July potluck only because he owed the owner a favor. He’d spent the last year holed up in the beat-up A-frame he’d bought 20 minutes outside Flagstaff, fixing rotted floorboards and patching the roof in near-silence, ever since his ex-wife moved to Phoenix with her personal trainer seven years prior. His biggest flaw was a stubborn refusal to let anyone do him a kindness, convinced any sort of reliance on another person would only end in disappointment, or worse, grief he didn’t have the energy to process. He planned to grab a beer, drop off the bag of store-bought potato chips he’d grabbed at the gas station, and be gone in 20 minutes flat.
The air reeked of charcoal, grilled sweet corn, and cheap citronella candles. A ragged country cover band played a slowed-down version of a 90s Toby Keith track off to the side, kids chased each other with glow sticks, and a group of regulars yelled over each other while they argued over cornhole scoring. He was halfway to the beer cooler when a voice called his name, warm and familiar, and he froze.
He turned, and it took him three full seconds to place her. Lila Marlow, 49, his late best friend Jake’s little sister, the girl he’d last seen at Jake’s funeral 18 years prior, when she was still a pigtailed college kid working at a plant nursery in Tucson. She wasn’t that kid anymore. Silver streaks ran through her thick dark hair, tied back in a messy braid, sun freckles spilled across her nose and cheeks, and she was wearing worn denim overalls caked with potting soil, scuffed work boots on her feet. When she walked over to hug him, her shirt smelled like lavender and pine sap, and the solid weight of her against his chest made his throat feel tight, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years.
He didn’t want to admit the first thought that popped into his head was how pretty she was, the twist of guilt sharp and immediate. Jake would have ripped his head off if he’d even looked at Lila that way back when they were in their 20s, had always called her off-limits to every member of his fire crew, no exceptions. Rafe had respected that, even when he’d caught her staring at him across Jake’s backyard at a cookout once, when she was 19 and he was 23, even when he’d felt the same pull then, quiet and unacknowledged.
They found a spot at a splintered picnic table off to the side, away from the noise. She told him she’d moved to Flagstaff six months prior to open her own small native plant nursery, had bought a plot of land two streets over from his A-frame, had no idea he lived there until she saw his name on the potluck sign-in sheet. He told her about the A-frame, about the fire crew, about the quiet he’d chased for the last decade. She laughed at his story about burning his entire batch of Fourth of July brats the year prior, leaning in so close her shoulder brushed his, and he could feel the heat of her through his worn flannel shirt, even through the cool mountain air.
They reached for the same bowl of dill potato salad at the same time, their hands brushing, and he felt a jolt run up his arm, sharp and warm. She flushed pink, didn’t pull her hand away for a beat longer than she needed to, her calloused fingertips grazing his knuckles, rough from years of hauling fire hoses and hammering nails. He watched her tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear, her eyes darting up to meet his, and he couldn’t look away, the guilt warring with the low, heavy hum of desire in his chest, a feeling he’d written off as dead years ago.
When the first fireworks went off, bursts of red and gold painting the dark mountain sky, they moved to sit on the tailgate of his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150, parked at the edge of the lot. She leaned into him when a particularly loud firework boomed, her side pressed fully against his, and she rested her hand on his knee, her thumb brushing the frayed edge of his jeans. She told him she’d had a crush on him back when she was 19, had never said anything because she knew Jake would have thrown a fit, had wondered for years what had happened to him after the funeral.
The confession knocked the wind out of him. He told her he’d felt the same way, had never acted on it out of respect for Jake, had spent so long closed off to anyone that he’d forgotten what it felt like to want to be around someone, to not feel like he had to be alone all the time. She tilted her head up to look at him, her eyes bright from the fireworks, no hesitation in her gaze, and he leaned in, kissed her slow, not rushing it. She tasted like peach pie and the cherry hard seltzer she’d been drinking, her hand coming up to cup his jaw, her thumb brushing the thin scar on his cheek he’d gotten from a falling pine branch on a fire call in 2011.
The fireworks faded, the crowd around them started packing up coolers and gathering stray lawn chairs, kids yawning as their parents herded them to cars. He didn’t want the night to end. He asked her if she wanted to come back to his place, said he still had that stack of old Johnny Cash records Jake had left at his apartment back in the 90s, the ones she’d always complained Jake played too loud. She smiled, nodded, and he helped her down off the tailgate, his hand lingering on her waist a little longer than necessary, the weight of it warm and steady through her overalls. She laced her fingers through his as they walked to the driver’s side door, her palm soft against his rough knuckles, the distant pop of leftover firecrackers ringing out behind them.
