Rafe Marquez, 62, retired U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, stood propped against a splintered pine picnic table at the county fire department’s summer fundraiser, sipping a hazy IPA that tasted like citrus and pine resin. He’d only shown up because his 22-year-old niece, a rookie volunteer firefighter, had threatened to post photos of him in the frumpy reindeer holiday sweater he’d worn to Christmas dinner on the town Facebook page if he bailed. For eight years, since his wife Elaine died of ovarian cancer, he’d avoided all community events like they were active burn zones, preferring the quiet of his off-grid cabin 20 miles outside town, where the only company he kept was his hound dog Mabel and the stack of western paperbacks he’d collected over three decades perched in remote fire towers. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he liked hiding behind his widower status, using grief as an excuse to skip the messy work of connecting with anyone new.
She leaned in close to be heard over the band, her faded flannel shirt tied around her waist brushing the side of his leg, and he caught a whiff of lavender hand soap and pine needles, like she’d been out hiking earlier that day. “Thought I recognized you hiding over here,” she yelled, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiled, sun streaks threading through the brown hair she’d pulled back in a messy braid. Her shoulder pressed into his bicep, warm even through the thin cotton of his gray work tee, and he froze for half a second, unused to anyone being that close to him on purpose. “Heard you fixed up that old 1972 Ford F-150 you found rotting in the field behind your cabin last year. Jake’s been bitching for months that you wouldn’t sell it to him for twice what you paid.”
Rafe snorted, twisting the cold beer can in his hand, condensation dripping down his wrist. “Jake can kiss my entire ass. That truck’s for my niece when she finishes fire academy.” He glanced past her, saw Jake across the lot, red faced and yelling at a county commissioner about zoning laws, a beer in each hand, his polo shirt stretched tight over his gut. He felt a twist of guilt in his gut, sharp and hot, for even talking to her, for noticing the way freckles dusted her nose, the way her fingers twisted a loose thread on her jeans when she laughed. He’d spent seven years feeling like a creep for the random, unbidden fantasies he’d had about her—driving around in that old Ford with her in the passenger seat, stopping to pick wild blackberries, drinking coffee on his porch at sunrise—and half hated himself for the way his heart was picking up speed now that she was standing next to him.
She laughed, loud and bright, and her hand brushed his when she reached past him to grab a napkin off the table, her palm soft against his calloused knuckles. “Trust me, I know. He’s been bitching about that truck every night at dinner for three months. I’m leaving him next week, by the way.” She said it so casually, like she was talking about the weather, and Rafe blinked, sure he’d misheard her over the band. Before he could ask her to repeat it, Jake yelled her name from across the lot, loud enough that half the people nearby turned to look.
She rolled her eyes, reached into the front pocket of her jeans, pulled out a crumpled independent bookstore receipt, and slipped it into the front pocket of his jeans, her fingers brushing the soft skin of his stomach through his tee for half a second, sending a jolt up his spine that settled low in his chest. “I manage the bookstore on Main Street, remember? We’re open till 9 on Wednesdays. Don’t be a coward and bail this time, Rafe.” Her voice was low, just loud enough for him to hear over the music, and then she turned, walking back across the lot toward Jake, slipping her hand into his like nothing had happened, a polite, blank smile on her face.
Rafe stood there for ten minutes, sipping his beer, his skin still tingling where her fingers had touched him, before he pulled the receipt out of his pocket. Scrawled on the back in blue ink was her cell phone number, and a tiny doodle of a fire tower, the same one he’d told her he’d spent 12 years working out of back when they’d talked at the hardware store. He pulled out his beat-up flip phone, the same one he’d had for 12 years, punched the number in, and sent a text that said “Wednesday. I’ll bring coffee. Black, right?” He stuffed the phone back in his pocket, leaned against the table, and watched her across the lot. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, glanced down at it, and smiled to herself, not looking up at him. The band switched to a slow Johnny Cash ballad, the same one he and Elaine had danced to at their wedding, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel guilty for smiling.
