Ronan Hale is 62, three years retired from a career as a wildland fire crew supervisor, and he’d spent two months making every excuse to skip the local volunteer fire department’s annual summer cookout. His old crew partner showed up on his porch with a six pack of his favorite Pabst Blue Ribbon and practically dragged him there, pointing out Ronan founded the cookout in 2001, and half the new crew had never met the guy who wrote their training manuals. Ronan’s biggest flaw, the one his late wife teased him about for 32 years, was that he’d rather hole up in his workshop restoring vintage chainsaws than admit he was lonely, so he caved, threw on a faded fire crew hoodie and scuffed work boots, and drove 12 miles into town.
The cookout was crammed into the small park off Main Street, hickory smoke curling thick enough to taste over the sound of kids screaming on the bouncy house and a classic rock station blaring from a portable speaker. Ronan beelined for the beer cooler in the back, planning to hover there until he’d put in an appearance long enough to satisfy his buddy, when someone slammed into his side hard enough to slosh half his beer onto the dirt.
He looked down first, at a paper plate heaped with pulled pork, a dollop of barbecue sauce dripping onto the toe of his work boot. Then he looked up, and met dark brown eyes framed by silver streaked bangs, the woman’s mouth parted in a shocked little O. She was maybe 58, wearing a faded flannel shirt and high waisted jeans, a stack of library checkout cards sticking out of her back pocket. He’d seen her around town once or twice, the new librarian who’d moved there from Portland after her divorce, but he’d never talked to her.
“Shit, I am so sorry,” she said, fumbling in her pocket for napkins. She knelt down without waiting for a response, her shoulder brushing the side of his thigh as she dabbed at the sauce on his boot, and Ronan could smell jasmine shampoo mixed with grill smoke, warm and sweet, nothing like the pine ash and diesel he’d spent most of his life breathing. He froze, halfway through telling her it didn’t matter, because no one had been that close to him without a reason in three years, no one had touched him even by accident without him pulling away first.
When she stood up, she was so close he could see faint freckles across her nose, the way her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. She held out a napkin, their fingers brushing when he took it, her skin soft against his calloused, scarred knuckles. He felt a jolt up his arm, the kind he’d only felt at 19 kissing his high school girlfriend for the first time, and he hated himself for it, for even noticing, for wanting to lean in closer. Everyone in town knew he was the grieving widower, that he didn’t date, that he spent all his time alone. The last thing he needed was people staring, whispering about how he was moving on too fast, disrespecting his wife’s memory.
But she didn’t act like she was pitying him, didn’t mention his wife, didn’t ask him the usual boring questions about how retirement was treating him. She just said her name was Clara, that she’d found a tattered 1972 wildland fire crew yearbook in a box of donations at the library a week earlier, that she’d seen his photo in it, crew cut and 22 years old, grinning next to a truck piled high with hoses. “I’ve been trying to track you down,” she said, nodding at the scar snaking across his left forearm. “I need someone to identify half the guys in the book, most of ’em don’t even have names under the photos.”
He found himself agreeing to come in, even though he hadn’t set foot in the town library since he was 16, when he’d gotten in trouble for hiding a Playboy in a copy of *Where the Red Fern Grows*. They walked to an empty picnic table on the park edge, away from the crowd, their arms brushing every few steps, and Ronan talked more than he had in months, telling her old crew stories, about the time they’d fought a mountain blaze while a bear ran past carrying their lunch cooler. She laughed loud, unselfconscious, leaning in so close her knee brushed his under the table, and for a minute he forgot to feel guilty, forgot to tell himself he didn’t deserve this.
By the time most of the crowd had cleared out, the sun was dipping low over the Bitterroot Mountains, painting the sky pink and orange. They were sitting on the tailgate of his beat up 2008 Ford F150, sharing a bag of cherry Sour Patch Kids he’d had stashed in the glove box, when she reached over and traced the scar on his forearm with the tip of her finger, her touch light as a feather. “How’d you get this?” she asked, quiet, like she knew it was a hard story.
He told her, didn’t leave out the part where his best friend Jimmie had died in that 2018 Lolo Peak fire, the part where he’d blamed himself for five years for not getting Jimmie out faster. She didn’t say “I’m so sorry” like everyone else did, didn’t pat his arm and change the subject. She just nodded, her finger still resting on the scar, and said “That sounds like the kind of weight you don’t ever put down, just learn to carry easier.”
He kissed her then, slow, not sure if she’d push him away, not sure if he even wanted her to. She tasted like root beer and cherry candy, her hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck, her nails scratching lightly against his sunburned skin. No one was around to see, no one was whispering, and for the first time in three years, he didn’t feel like he was doing something wrong.
He drove her home, walked her up to her porch, the screen door creaking when she pushed it open a little. She leaned against the doorframe, grinning, and told him she’d leave the yearbook on the front desk for him, that she’d even save him a coffee, black, just how he liked it. He told her he’d be there at 10 sharp.
He walked back to his truck, the cool night air nipping at his cheeks, and for the first time in three years, he didn’t feel like he was rushing to get back to an empty house.
