Rudy Galvan, 62, retired wildland fire foreman, leaned against the dented side of his 2008 Ford F-150 and sipped a lukewarm Coors Light, the plastic cup sweating through the paper napkin wrapped around its base. The VFW fish fry hummed 50 feet away: the sharp, greasy smell of fried catfish curling through the pine-scented air, a cover band fumbling through an Alan Jackson deep cut, kids screaming as they chased each other around the picnic tables. His left knee throbbed, a dull, persistent ache he’d been ignoring for three weeks, ever since he’d hauled a 120 pound outboard motor onto his fishing boat alone and tweaked the surgical repair he’d gotten six months prior. He’d skipped his last three physical therapy appointments on purpose, too stubborn to admit he wasn’t as indestructible as he’d been when he was leading hotshot crews through California wildfires 10 years earlier. Widowed for 8, kids grown and living in Denver, he’d gotten used to handling every mess on his own, even the ones he couldn’t put out with a hose and a Pulaski.
He was half considering bailing early, cooler of catfish already packed in the truck bed, when he spotted her walking toward him. Marnie Hale, 48, ran the new PT clinic on Main Street, the one with potted geraniums in the window and the sign that said NO PAIN NO GAIN (BUT WE’LL GIVE YOU ICE CREAM AFTER). She was still in her navy scrubs, white sneakers caked with dust from the gravel parking lot, hair pulled back in a loose braid that escaped strands at the nape of her neck. He’d had a stupid, quiet crush on her since his first appointment, when she’d grabbed his knee without warning and made him snort so loud the whole waiting room looked over. He’d avoided her specifically because of that crush, because everyone in town still thought she was married to the real estate agent who left her for a 28 year old barista six months prior, a secret he’d only overheard when he was grabbing breakfast at the diner two weeks earlier. Flirting with a “married” woman was the kind of small town gossip that stuck to you for years, and he didn’t need that kind of hassle.
She stopped two feet away, hands on her hips, and raised one eyebrow. “I was wondering when I’d run into you. You owe me three co-pays, Galvan.” Her voice was warm, teasing, no bite to it, and he felt his face heat up like he was a 16 year old getting chewed out by his crew chief. She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell coconut shampoo over the fried fish and charcoal fumes, and nodded at his knee. “How’s it feeling? Be honest. I can tell you’re favoring it just by how you’re leaning on that truck.”
He grunted, shifting his weight to his right leg like that would hide it. “Fine. Just sore from hauling boat parts. Didn’t need to waste your time.”
“Waste my time?” She laughed, a low, throaty sound that made his chest feel tight, and leaned against the truck next to him, their shoulders three inches apart, no space between their elbows when she lifted her hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I spend half my day working with 70 year olds who lie about their golf games so they can skip stretches. You think I don’t know when someone’s lying because they’re scared to look weak?”
He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it when she reached out to tap his knee, her knuckles brushing the frayed edge of his work jeans, the contact sending a jolt up his spine that had nothing to do with pain. A kid on a BMX bike swerved around a parked sedan 10 feet away, yelling a warning, and Marnie stumbled sideways, her chest pressing against his bicep for half a second before she caught herself. She didn’t step back right away, looking up at him, her brown eyes darker than he’d ever seen them, and he could feel the heat of her body through the thin fabric of his flannel shirt.
“I heard you finalized the divorce,” he said before he could think better of it, and her mouth twitched into a small, secret smile.
“Word travels fast. I haven’t even told my mom yet.” She shifted her weight, her hand brushing his where it rested on the truck bed, and he didn’t pull away. “Why? You scared someone’s gonna see us talking and think you’re homewrecking?”
“Something like that.” He paused, then shrugged, the stubbornness melting out of him the longer he looked at her. “Truth is I skipped the appointments ‘cause I didn’t want you to see me struggling. Saw you at the grocery store two weeks ago, carrying that huge bag of dog food for your golden retriever. Wanted to go over and carry it for you, was scared my knee would give out halfway to your car.”
She laughed, soft this time, and put her hand flat on his knee, pressing gently, the pressure firm and warm through his jeans. “You’re the only person in this town who carried three kids out of the 2017 Eagle Creek fire with a broken rib. You think I’d think less of you for a bad knee? I’ve been waiting for you to ask me out for three months, for Christ’s sake. I kept scheduling your appointments for Friday afternoons ‘cause I knew you’d stop for pie at the farmers market on the way.”
He stared at her, stunned, then grinned, the ache in his knee fading to nothing for the first time all week. “I got a peach pie in the fridge at my place. Fresh this morning. Got good coffee, too. We can do your stupid stretches on the porch if you want. No co-pay required.”
She pushed off the truck, grinning back, and nodded at the passenger door. “Lead the way. But if you lie about how bad your knee hurts during stretches, I’m eating the whole pie myself.”
He opened the passenger door for her, his hand brushing her lower back when she climbed up, the contact soft, intentional this time. When he shut the door, he glanced across the parking lot and spotted his old hotshot buddy Tom leaning against a picnic table, grinning and giving him a loud, exaggerated thumbs up. He flipped Tom off, still grinning, and walked around to the driver’s side, the gravel crunching soft under his boots, his knee holding steady with every step.
