Javi Mendez, 52, owns a small wildfire mitigation firm outside Bend, Oregon, and has carried a petty grudge for 12 solid years. The grudge’s target? Elara Voss, his ex-wife’s second cousin, who’d wiped the floor with him at a 2011 Super Bowl bet, then teased him so loud in front of 20 party guests he’d left halfway through the fourth quarter, beer sloshing over the rim of his cup, and didn’t speak to anyone in her branch of the family for eight months after. His biggest flaw, he’ll admit if he’s three IPAs deep, is that he hates losing worse than he hates fighting 90-foot flame fronts on a 105-degree August afternoon. He retired from Cal Fire three years prior, still has a thick, silvery scar snaking up his left forearm from a 2019 blaze outside Redding, spends most weekends alone under the hood of his beat-up 1978 Ford Bronco, and hasn’t been on a date in four years, mostly because every woman he’s met lately either complains nonstop about HOA fees or expects him to go to hot yoga with them at 6 a.m.
He’d only showed up to the annual Bend Fire Department community cookout because his former crew begged him, said the free brisket was worth putting up with the rookie firefighters asking him a million questions about old blaze stories. He’s halfway through his second beer, leaning against a splintered picnic table and ignoring a 22-year-old probie asking about the Redding fire, when the first fat raindrop hits the back of his neck. He curses under his breath, makes a beeline for the pop-up cooler stacked with cold drinks under a canvas awning, and reaches for an IPA at the exact same time another hand does.
Their knuckles brush. He feels the rough, raised callus on her index finger first, the kind you get from years of pushing a stitching awl through thick leather, then catches the scent of pine resin and jasmine hand lotion, sharp and sweet, before he looks up. It’s Elara. She’s got a streak of silver running through the dark, wavy hair she’s pulled back in a loose braid, silver hoop earrings strung with tiny, dented fire axe charms, and a smudge of black leather dye on her left cheekbone. She smirks, the same way she did when she won that bet 12 years ago, and pulls her hand back slowly, like she’s savoring the way he froze mid-reach.
“Still reach for beer like you’re grabbing a hose off a fire truck, huh Mendez?” she says, and her voice is a little rougher than he remembers, like she’s spent years yelling over wind in mountain passes. The rain picks up, other people dart past them for the shelter of the fire station garage, and the awning sways a little, so she steps closer, her shoulder pressed firm to his bicep, the thin cotton of her flannel shirt warm even through his own. He doesn’t move away. He didn’t even know she was back in Bend, thought she was still in Montana running her leatherworking business, making custom saddle bags and knife sheaths for ranch hands.
“Didn’t know you were in town,” he says, grabs the IPA he was reaching for and hands it to her first, mostly because he’s still off-kilter. She takes it, her fingers brushing his palm this time, and nods. Moved back last month, she says, bought a small shop downtown, wants to be closer to her mom, who’s got bad knees. She mentions she saw his company truck at her sister’s house last week, watched him clear 50 feet of dry brush from the property line without cutting down the 40-year-old ponderosa pine she planted when she was 16. He’s surprised she even remembers that tree, let alone paid attention to how he did the job.
They bicker for 10 minutes about the old Super Bowl bet, him insisting she cheated by looking up stats on her flip phone when he wasn’t looking, her laughing so hard she snorts, saying he was just too drunk to remember the Chiefs had a backup quarterback who’d thrown three interceptions the month prior. The rain tapers off, but no one comes back to the awning, everyone’s crowded around the grill inside the garage, yelling about the upcoming local rodeo. She leans in suddenly, brushes a pine needle off the collar of his flannel, and her hand lingers on his chest for half a beat, right over the faded Cal Fire logo stitched there. He meets her eyes, and for the first time he doesn’t see the teasing smirk, just something soft, a little nervous, like she’s been waiting to say something for a long time.
“Y’know,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear, “I didn’t tease you that night because I thought you were an idiot. I teased you because I thought you were cute, and you were too busy staring at your then-wife to even notice I was talking to you half the party.” He blinks, feels his ears go hot, and admits he avoided her for 12 years not because he was mad about the bet, but because he was embarrassed he lost in front of her, that he’d cared what she thought even back then, when he was still married and stupid enough to think petty grudges mattered more than the way his chest tightened every time she laughed.
She grins, takes a sip of her beer, and asks if he’s got plans after the cookout, says she’s been craving the carnitas tacos from the food truck down on Division Street. He says no, he was just gonna go home and mess with his Bronco, and she snorts, says she’d much rather ride in that beat-up old truck than any fancy new SUV, that she loves the dent on the passenger door he got when he hit a moose last winter—she saw the photo of it on his cousin’s Instagram. He laughs, opens the cooler to grab two more beers for the road, and holds out his hand to help her step over a puddle forming at the edge of the awning. She takes it, her calloused fingers lacing through his for a second longer than necessary, and when they get to his Bronco, he leans over the passenger seat to fix the sticky old seatbelt for her, his shoulder brushing her thigh as he clicks it into place.
