Roland Voss, 59, retired wildland fire logistics coordinator, dragged his boots up the block toward the annual summer cookout, a crumpled six-pack of local hazy IPA tucked under one arm. He’d skipped the event three years running, ever since his wife Diane passed from ovarian cancer, convinced the only thing waiting for him was a dozen pitying smiles and half-baked questions about how he was holding up. His left knee ached from the old 2017 Oregon deployment injury, the humidity clinging to the Ohio air thick enough to sip, and he almost turned around three times before he spotted the kid from two doors down waving him over, holding up a plate stacked with smoked brisket.
He planted himself at the far edge of the grill perimeter, cap pulled low, sipping his beer and only grunting when someone stopped to say hi. He was reaching for a cheeseburger off the platter when his forearm brushed something soft, and a high, startled laugh hit his ear. Half a glass of dry rosé sloshed over the rim, soaking a two-inch splotch into the faded gray fire crew hoodie he’d had since 2012.
He tensed immediately, already mentally rehearsing the “it’s fine, don’t worry about it” line he used to get people to leave him alone, until he looked down. Elara Mendez, 56, the botanical illustrator who’d moved into the old Henderson place three months prior, was already dabbing at the stain with a crumpled linen handkerchief pulled from the pocket of her high-waisted denim shorts, her bare shoulder pressed warm against his bicep. Her hair was streaked with silver, pulled back in a loose braid that smelled like jasmine and cut grass, and she didn’t step back when he froze, her hazel eyes flecked with gold locking on his for three full beats longer than polite conversation called for. “My bad,” she said, grinning, the corner of her mouth tugged up in a half-tease. “I’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk goldfish. This hoodie looks too nice to ruin with cheap Trader Joe’s rosé.”
Roland’s throat went dry. He’d spent three years actively not looking at any woman that way, disgusted with himself every time a random stranger at the grocery store caught his eye, convinced he was betraying Diane’s memory just by noticing someone else was pretty. He opened his mouth to make an excuse to leave, until she nodded at the patch sewn to his hoodie sleeve, the stitched logo for the 2018 Camp Fire interagency crew. “I did illustrations for a wildfire ecology textbook two years back,” she said, leaning in a little closer, her voice dropping so no one else could hear. “I read all the after-action reports for that deployment. You guys pulled off a miracle getting those evacuation routes set up with zero notice.”
He blinked. No one had asked him about that work in years, not even Diane, who’d always hated talking about the parts of his job that kept him gone for months at a time. He found himself leaning in too, answering her questions, forgetting about the party around them, until the sun dipped below the rooflines and fireflies started blinking in the oak trees lining the street. She nodded toward the small creek at the end of the block, and he followed her without thinking, the distant sound of the party’s playlist fading behind them as they crunched over gravel.
They stopped at the bank, leaning down to look at a tiny green tree frog perched on a smooth river rock, and her hand brushed his when they both reached out to get a closer look, her fingers calloused at the tips from holding pencils for hours at a time. He didn’t pull away. For the first time in three years, the guilt that usually coiled tight in his chest didn’t flare up, just a soft, warm hum low in his gut, like the first spark of a campfire on a cold morning.
She said she had a stack of sketchbooks full of fire ecology drawings back at her place, and asked if he wanted to come look. He nodded, and she laced her fingers through his as they walked back up the block, her hand small and warm in his. She held the screen door to her house open for him, and the scent of jasmine hit him again, soft and sweet, as he stepped over the threshold.
