Manny Ruiz, 57, retired smokejumper turned wildfire mitigation consultant, leans against a rough cedar fence at the town’s annual summer beer festival, condensation from his plastic IPA cup dripping onto the scuffed leather of his work boots. He’d only caved and come because his old jump partner, now the town’s fire chief, had threatened to stop dropping off free elk sausage at his cabin if he bailed again. He’d planned to stay 20 minutes max, avoid the pitying smiles from the locals who still saw him as the quiet widower who never left his property unless it was for work.
The hum of bluegrass from the stage 50 feet away mixes with the yelp of kids chasing each other through the craft booths, the sharp tang of hops and grilled bratwurst hanging thick in the warm pine-scented air. He’s just about to toss his half-empty cup and head for his truck when a soft shoulder bumps his right arm, hard enough to make a drop of beer slosh over the edge onto his scarred forearm.
He turns, ready to mutter a dismissive no problem, and freezes. Lila Marquez is standing less than a foot away, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid streaked with neon blue, a smudge of charcoal on her left cheek, the freckle above her upper lip he remembers from when she was 12 and he’d drive her and his late wife to soccer practice every Saturday. She’s 32 now, just moved back to town three weeks prior to run the county’s youth art program, and she’s grinning like she knows exactly how flustered he is.
Her forearm brushes his again when she leans in to talk over the music, her coconut shampoo cutting through the smell of beer and smoke. “Took me 15 minutes to work up the nerve to come say hi. Thought you’d bolt before I got the chance.” She nods at the frayed Carhartt hat pulled low over his forehead, the one he’s had since his first jump in 1998. “You still wear that thing? I remember you refusing to throw it out even when a tree branch tore a hole in the brim back in 2010.”
He blinks, surprised she remembers that. He shifts his weight, his boot scuffing the dirt, suddenly hyper aware of how close she is, how her cutoff shorts expose a smattering of freckles across her thighs, how her nails are chipped with the same sky blue paint as the streak in her hair. He feels a sharp, guilty jolt in his chest—she’s his late wife’s best friend’s daughter, for Christ’s sake, he used to bring her candy corn every Halloween, help her hang Christmas lights on her mom’s porch. He should step back, make an excuse to leave, do the respectable thing.
Instead he laughs, a rough rusty sound he hasn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months. “Can’t get rid of it. Good luck charm.” He nods at the stack of canvas prints tucked under her arm, watercolor landscapes of the surrounding mountains. “You selling these?”
She lights up, shifting the prints so he can get a better look, her hand brushing his when she passes him one of a sunset over the valley he hikes every Sunday. The paper is smooth under his fingers, the edges smudged with paint. “I sold half of them already. Was gonna bring one by your cabin later, actually. I saw the view from your deck when I was dropping off my mom’s pie last week. It’s even better than this one.”
Her knee presses against his when they step to the side to let a group of drunk college kids pass, the warm denim soft against his bare calf where his jeans are rolled up. She doesn’t move away. She pulls a tiny plastic shot glass of peach moonshine from her fanny pack, holds it out to him, her fingers brushing his when he takes it. “Local distillery made it. Tastes like summer. C’mon. I know you don’t do crowds. We can sit on the picnic table over by the trees, away from everyone.”
He follows her without thinking, his boots crunching over pine needles, the shot of moonshine burning all the way down his throat when he tosses it back. They sit on the edge of a splintered picnic table, their shoulders pressed together, watching the band play a slow cover of a Johnny Cash song he and his wife used to dance to in the kitchen. He’s half waiting for the guilt to hit, for the voice in his head to scream that this is wrong, that he’s betraying the 22 years he had with his wife, that everyone in town will talk if they see them together. But the guilt doesn’t come. All he feels is the warm press of her arm against his, the sound of her laughing when he tells her about the time he tripped over a root while hiking last month and landed in a patch of poison ivy, the way she holds eye contact like she actually cares what he has to say, not like she’s just making polite conversation with the town’s sad widower.
She leans in close after a minute, her breath smelling like peaches and mint, her lips almost brushing his ear. “I had the biggest crush on you when I was 16. Used to make my mom invite you over for dinner every weekend just so I could see you. I thought you were the coolest guy alive.” She pulls back, grinning, not an ounce of embarrassment on her face. “Still do, for the record. I know it’s weird. I know people will talk. I don’t care. You don’t have to be lonely anymore, Manny.”
He freezes for half a second, every muscle in his body tight, the voice in his head screaming to pull away, to say something polite, to run. Then he lifts his hand, rests it on her knee, the denim warm and soft under his calloused palm. She doesn’t flinch. She leans in closer, her hand coming to rest on top of his.
They leave the festival 10 minutes later, him carrying her stack of unsold prints under one arm, her hand slipped into his, their fingers laced together. The sun is dipping low over the pines, painting the sky pink and orange, the street quiet, no one else around to see them. When they get to his porch, he sets the prints down on the step, pulls her close with both hands on her waist, kisses her slow. She tastes like peach moonshine and coconut, her hands tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, no hesitation, no guilt, no awkwardness.
The screen door creaks open when he pulls her inside, the cool air of the cabin wrapping around them, the sound of crickets chirping faint through the open window.
