Rusty Hoff, 62, hauled the hand-carved oak plaque out of his 2004 F-150 bed at 4 PM, sun low enough to gild the tops of the ponderosa pines lining the Oregon county park’s beer and BBQ festival grounds. He’d spent three weeks carving the names of local 4-H kids who’d helped fund the 12 vintage-style picnic tables he’d restored for the park, and he planned to screw the plaque to the entrance table and hightail it home before his ex-wife’s prizewinning peach pie went up for auction at 5. The air reeked of hickory smoke, citrus seltzer, and sunscreen, a bluegrass trio sawing away at a fiddle tune so loud the truck’s tailgate hummed along. He’d changed out of his work jeans into a clean plaid flannel, but he still had sawdust crammed in the creases of his knuckles, a faint streak of oak stain on the side of his neck he’d missed while shaving that morning. For 12 years, he’d avoided every public event his ex might attend, convinced the awkward run-in wasn’t worth the temporary fun, still stinging from the day she left him for a guy who sold heirloom tomatoes out of a converted school bus.
He was halfway through drilling the plaque into place when he heard her voice. “Took you long enough. I thought you were gonna bail before I got to buy you a beer.” Marisol Cruz, 58, the park ranger who’d signed off on every one of his work orders for the past six months, was leaning against the other end of the table, holding two cold IPAs, condensation beading down the sides so fast it dripped onto her worn olive uniform pants. He’d been avoiding her for weeks, ever since she’d slipped a note in his work folder that said Nice call using cedar for the lake table. Smells like summer, signed with a doodle of a pine tree. He’d told himself it was unprofessional, that he was too old for silly crushes, that the last time he’d let someone get close they’d gutted him and left his garage half-empty of power tools.
He stood, wiping his palms on his jeans, and realized he was standing so close to her he could smell the coconut sunscreen she wore, a faint whiff of peppermint gum on her breath. She held out the beer, and their fingers brushed when he took it, her skin warmer than the cold glass, calloused from years of hauling trail maintenance gear and rescuing lost golden retrievers from the backcountry. He didn’t pull away immediately, just held that contact for half a beat longer than he should have, his face heating up like he was 16 again asking a girl to prom. “I wasn’t gonna stay,” he said, taking a sip, the bitter hop taste cutting through the dryness in his mouth. “Ex is here. Don’t feel like running into her.” She laughed, a low, throaty sound that made his chest feel tight, and slid onto the bench of the table he’d built, patting the spot next to her. “Coward. She’s over by the pie tent, hasn’t looked this way once. Sit. I wanna hear how you got that stain on your neck.”
He sat, and their knees brushed under the table, denim on denim, and he didn’t shift away. For 12 years, he’d shut every possible door to anything that felt like romance, convinced he was too broken, too set in his ways, too angry to let anyone in. He’d spent nights sanding table legs until his arms ached, drinking beer alone in his garage, ignoring the friends who tried to set him up, rolling his eyes at the couples walking through the park holding hands. But sitting next to Marisol, listening to her rant about the teens who kept carving initials into the restroom stalls, the way she gestured with her beer when she got annoyed, her eyes crinkling at the corners when he made a dumb joke about how he could build them stalls that’d be impossible to carve even with a pocket knife, he felt that old bitterness start to melt, slow as butter on a hot sidewalk.
The announcement for the pie auction blared over the speakers, and he tensed, waiting for that familiar twist of anger in his gut, for the urge to jump in his truck and peel out. But Marisol leaned in, her shoulder brushing his, and whispered “Wanna make her mad? I’ll bid on her pie. We can eat it together on the table you built, right where she can see us.” He turned to look at her, and her face was inches from his, her dark eyes glinting in the sunset, a little smirk on her lips that made his heart skip a beat. For a second, he almost said no, almost made up an excuse about having to get home to his elderly beagle, almost let 12 years of hurt win. But then he thought about all the nights he’d spent alone, all the times he’d turned down fun just to avoid a little discomfort, all the little notes she’d left him that he’d tucked into the visor of his truck, reading them when he was stuck in traffic on the way to the lumber yard.
He grinned, and leaned in a little closer, so their foreheads almost touched. “Better bid high. She thinks her pie’s worth a million bucks.” She laughed, and he could feel the vibration of it against his arm, and for the first time in 12 years, he didn’t care that his ex was 50 feet away, didn’t care that he was making a fool of himself, didn’t care that he’d spent so long being angry he’d forgotten what it felt like to be giddy over someone. He reached over, brushed a stray strand of wind-tousled hair that had fallen in her face behind her ear, his calloused fingers brushing her cheek soft as the cedar shavings he worked with every day. They stood up together, her hand brushing his as they walked toward the pie tent, the bluegrass band switching to a slower, sweeter tune, the hickory smoke curling up into the pink and orange sunset.
