Arnie Mendez, 62, spent 38 years managing the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge before retiring last spring. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he held grudges longer than he held onto the scuffed leather work boots he still wore every weekend. For 13 years, he’d avoided every local fundraiser, beer garden pop-up, and even the annual county fair just to skip running into Elara Voss, his ex-wife’s former best friend, the woman he’d been convinced talked his ex into leaving him for a traveling wind turbine technician back in 2010.
He’d only caved on coming to the firefly watch fundraiser because his 16-year-old granddaughter had begged him to help man the bird identification booth, and he’d never been able to say no to her. She’d left an hour prior to go to a movie with friends, so Arnie was leaning against a splintered pine picnic table, sipping a hazy IPA that tasted like pine resin and citrus, watching the string lights strung between cottonwood trees flicker in the warm June breeze. The air smelled like roasted green chile from the food truck parked by the entrance, and the bluegrass band on the small stage was playing a cover of a Johnny Cash song he’d danced to at his wedding, of all things.
He spotted her first, across the crowd, and his jaw tightened. Elara was 58, still had the same wild curly auburn hair streaked with silver that he’d secretly thought was pretty back when he was married, and she was wearing a faded linen button down and cutoff jeans, her feet in scuffed white leather sandals. She was laughing at something the guy selling homemade peach jam next to her said, and when she turned her head, her eyes locked straight onto his. She didn’t look away. She lifted her own cup of iced tea in a small, teasing toast, then started walking toward him.
Arnie considered darting for the exit, but his boots felt rooted to the patchy grass. When she got close enough, her sandal brushed the toe of his work boot by accident, and she smiled, leaning in a little so he could hear her over the music. Her shoulder brushed his bare bicep when she leaned in, and he caught a whiff of lavender lotion and the faint, sweet smell of peaches from the jam she’d probably just sampled. “Figured I’d find you here,” she said, her voice low and warm, like she was sharing a secret. “You always did love watching the fireflies come out this time of year. I remember you bringing a jar of them home for your daughter once, back when she was seven.”
Arnie blinked. He’d forgotten that memory entirely. He’d spent so long painting her as the villain in his divorce that he’d forgotten all the small, nice moments she’d been around for, back when things were good. He grunted, taking a sip of his beer to avoid talking, but she didn’t leave. She leaned against the picnic table next to him, close enough that their arms brushed every time one of them shifted, and she nodded toward the dark field at the edge of the beer garden, where the first few fireflies were starting to blink on. “Your ex lied to you, you know,” she said, so quiet he almost missed it. “I never told her to leave you. I told her she was being an idiot for throwing away a guy who’d drive three hours in a snowstorm to pick her up from her sister’s house when her car broke down. She said that to make you hate me, because she was mad I wouldn’t lie for her about where she was staying the first week she left.”
Arnie’s throat went dry. For 13 years, that lie had been the anchor of all his anger, all the resentment he’d carried around like an extra weight in his truck bed. He looked over at her, and she was watching him, her dark brown eyes soft, no trace of malice or teasing in them. He felt the grudge he’d held onto for so long start to crumble, fast, and he was disgusted with himself for how quickly he was letting it go, for how attracted he was to her right now, when he’d spent over a decade telling himself she was the last person on earth he’d ever want to be around.
“Want to walk over to the field? Get a better look at the fireflies?” she asked, pushing off the table. She didn’t wait for an answer, just started walking, and Arnie found himself following her, his boots crunching on the gravel path leading to the field. When they got to the edge, a kid ran past, almost knocking into Elara, and she reached out to steady herself, her hand wrapping around his forearm for a split second. He didn’t pull away. She let go slowly, her fingers brushing his skin as she pulled her hand back, and she smiled up at him, the glow of fireflies flickering across her face.
They stood there for ten minutes, not talking, watching hundreds of fireflies blink on and off across the field, the music from the beer garden faint behind them. Arnie’s hand was hanging loose at his side, and when her hand brushed his, he didn’t move. He laced his fingers through hers, slow, like he was approaching a skittish deer he didn’t want to scare off. She didn’t pull away. She squeezed his hand once, soft, and leaned her shoulder against his.
A firefly landed on the back of her hand, and she laughed, quiet, so she wouldn’t scare it off. Arnie leaned in a little, his face close to hers, and she didn’t pull away. He blew the firefly off her hand gently, and when she tilted her head up to look at him, he kissed her, slow and soft, the distant twang of the bluegrass band humming under the sound of crickets.
