Rafe Mendez, 62, retired wildland fire crew foreman, had spent the last seven years treating small-town social events like they were 100-foot flame fronts he could outrun. His only flaw, if you asked his former crew, was that he’d let the grief of losing his wife to breast cancer harden him into something sharper, colder, than the Pulaski axes he used to swing on fire lines. He only showed up to the annual county fire department barbecue that Saturday because his old crew had showed up on his porch at 8 a.m. with a six pack of his favorite IPA and threatened to mow down his prize rose bushes if he bailed again.
He was leaned up against the beer cooler, half-listening to a rookie firefighter ramble about controlled burn protocols, when Elara Voss tripped over the cinder block holding down the nearest tent line. She was carrying a heaping plate of smoked brisket and potato salad, and a dollop of barbecue sauce splattered right onto the toe of his scuffed work boot before she caught her balance. She cursed under her breath, bright heat rising to her cheeks, and leaned down immediately to wipe it off with the napkin crumpled in her hand.
Rafe stepped back before she could make contact, his boot scuffing the dust. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. He’d known Elara for 30 years, first as the wife of his old crew chief, the man he’d stopped speaking to a decade prior over a petty dispute about a fire line call that almost got two of his guys hurt. He’d always thought she was off limits, even back when they were all younger, even when he’d catch her staring at him across the station break room, even when his wife would tease him that Elara’s eyes lit up every time he walked in a room. It was a line he’d never let himself cross, crew code and loyalty to his own marriage holding him back for decades.
Their hands brushed when he reached for the napkin she was holding out to him. Her skin was warm, calloused at the knuckles from the community garden she ran as the county extension agent, and he felt a jolt shoot up his arm that had nothing to do with the cold beer can he’d been gripping for the last 20 minutes. The hickory smoke from the grill curled around them, loud country music blared from the speakers by the picnic tables, and for a second no one else existed but the two of them, standing three inches apart, neither of them pulling their hand away.
He hated himself for the spark he felt. He’d spent seven years convincing himself he was too old for that mess, that dating was for people who hadn’t buried the person they thought they’d spend the rest of their life with, that crossing a line with his old crew chief’s ex-wife was the kind of low move he’d never stoop to. But when she smiled at him, the crinkles around her deep brown eyes the same as they’d been in the 90s, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away.
They ended up drifting to the edge of the field, sitting on the tailgate of his beat-up 2004 Ford F150, away from the noise of the crowd. She told him she’d divorced his old crew chief three years prior, that he’d cheated on her with a woman half his age, that she’d been meaning to talk to Rafe for years but didn’t think he’d want anything to do with someone tied to his old boss. She admitted she’d had a crush on him since 1998, when he’d carried her out of her flooded cabin in the middle of a thunderstorm because her then-husband was too drunk to answer his phone.
Rafe laughed, a low, rough sound he didn’t make often these days. He told her he’d thought about her too, more times than he’d ever admit out loud, but that he’d never acted on it because of the stupid unwritten rules of the crew, because he’d thought loyalty meant ignoring what was right in front of him. The sun was dipping below the pine trees now, painting the sky pink and orange, and the evening air was cool enough that he could see his breath when he exhaled. Her knee bumped his when she shifted to reach for the chocolate chip cookie she’d snuck from the dessert table, and he caught a whiff of her lavender hand cream mixed with the leftover smoke from the barbecue in her hair.
He didn’t overthink it when he reached over, tucking a stray strand of dark hair streaked with silver behind her ear. She didn’t flinch away, didn’t look down, just held his gaze, her lips tilted up in a small, soft smile. He’d spent so long running from anything that felt like joy, so long convincing himself he didn’t deserve anything good after his wife died, that for a second he thought he might be dreaming.
He asked her if she wanted to come back to his place, that his neighbor had dropped off a jar of homemade peach pie moonshine the week prior, that his porch swing had the best view of the national forest he’d spent 30 years protecting. She nodded immediately, sliding off the tailgate before he could second guess the question. He hopped down beside her, his work boots thudding against the packed dirt.
He opens the passenger door for her, his palm lingering on the small of her back for half a second longer than necessary as she climbs in.
