Elias Voss, 53, retired wildland firefighter, manhandled a stack of hamburger patties onto the cast-iron grill at the annual Maplewood fire department cookout, smoke curling up to sting the corners of his eyes. Thin, silvery scars crisscrossed his forearms from a 2017 blaze outside Bend, the same fire that left him with a faint wheeze in his left lung and pushed him into early retirement. His flaw was as obvious as the frayed cuff on his faded 2018 crew hoodie: he’d spent eight years closing himself off from any softness, convinced the grief of losing his wife to ovarian cancer made him too heavy a burden for anyone else to carry. He’d turned down three setups from the fire chief’s wife in the last year alone, preferring his quiet cedar cabin, his stack of dog-eared outdoor memoirs, and the company of his three leghorn chickens to any forced small talk.
The crowd buzzed around him, kids chasing each other with water guns, old crew buddies yelling over the top of a country song blaring from a portable speaker. He’d just flipped a row of patties when someone tripped over the blue cooler at his feet, and he reached out on instinct to catch her by the elbow. Her hand brushed the thickest scar on his left forearm as she steadied herself, and he flinched not from pain, but from the unexpected warmth of her skin, the first casual touch he’d felt from anyone who wasn’t a cashier or a doctor in years. She was Marisol Ruiz, the new county librarian who’d moved to town three months prior, wearing a sunflower-patterned sundress that hit mid-thigh, scuffed white Converse, and silver hoops that caught the late afternoon sun so bright he had to blink for a second to focus. She laughed, a low, warm sound, and apologized, wiping a smudge of cherry lemonade from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.
He grunted that it was fine, already mentally kicking himself for even reacting to the touch, for noticing how the freckles spread across her nose, for picking up the faint smell of coconut shampoo over the charcoal smoke and grilled beef. She’d dropped off a stack of flyers for the library’s senior reading program, she explained, and had gotten distracted watching a golden retriever chase a frisbee across the field. He almost didn’t say anything when she mentioned she’d been scouring every used bookstore within 50 miles for a first edition of Edward Abbey’s *Desert Solitaire*, his late wife’s favorite book, one he had tucked on the top shelf of his cabin’s living room, its spine worn thin from a dozen re-reads. But she was leaning in now, her shoulder barely an inch from his, her dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners when he made a dumb joke about pine beetles ruining half his favorite camping spots last summer, and the words slipped out before he could stop them.
He offered to lend her his copy, if she wanted to follow him back to his cabin after the cookout wrapped. He held his breath waiting for her to say no, for her to pick up on how rough he was, how he still smelled like pine sap and diesel from fixing a neighbor’s truck that morning, how he hadn’t kissed anyone in eight years. Instead she nodded, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear, and said she’d love to.
The drive to his cabin was short, down a rutted dirt road lined with Douglas firs, and he kept his hands tight on the steering wheel of his beat-up 2007 Ford F-150, stealing quick glances at her in the passenger seat as she hummed along to the old Johnny Cash station he had preset. His cabin was neat, the air smelling like cedar and the cold brew he’d made that morning. He pulled the book off the top shelf, and when he handed it to her, their fingers brushed again, and this time neither of them pulled away. She ran a finger over the faded cover, said her dad used to read Abbey to her when they camped in the redwoods as a kid, and asked if he ever still went camping solo. He said he went every fall, up into the Ochoco National Forest, and when she asked if he’d mind an extra person sometime, he didn’t hesitate to say yes. She leaned in first, kissing him slow, the faint tang of cherry lemonade still on her lips, and he cupped her jaw with his calloused hands, not overthinking the shake in his fingers, not worrying that he was too broken, too rough, too stuck in his grief for this to work. She pulled back after a minute, grinning, and said she had to head home to feed her rescue cat, but she’d bring the book back in a week, along with the salted caramel apple pie she’d mentioned baking the week before. He walked her to her car, opened the driver’s side door for her, and she squeezed his hand tight before she slid into the seat. He stood in the driveway long after her taillights disappeared around the bend in the road, leaning against the porch rail, and took a slow, deep breath that didn’t catch in his damaged lung for the first time in years.
