Rafe Mendez, 62, retired smokejumper turned custom axe restorer, had only planned to drop off his charity auction piece at the Oregon coastal town’s annual harvest festival and bolt. He hated crowds, hated the way every local within ten feet would corner him to ask about past fire seasons up in the Cascades, hated the unspoken questions about why he still lived alone in that creaky cabin off the logging road eight years after his wife packed her car and drove to Portland without a goodbye. The rain picked up as he turned to leave, fat cold drops soaking through the frayed cuff of his Carhartt jacket, so he ducked under the beer tent awning, propped one work boot on a cinder block, and nursed a lukewarm lager he’d bought just to avoid looking like a loiterer.
The smell of roasted sweet corn and wet pine hung thick in the air, paired with the tinny twang of a bluegrass band playing on the main stage fifty feet away. He was half considering making a run for his beat up Ford F-150 anyway when a woman bumped hard into his side, sending a stack of neon paper flyers spilling across the muddy ground at his feet. Her flannel, tied loose around her waist, brushed his thigh as she stumbled back, mumbled apologies already falling out of her mouth.
Rafe bent to grab the nearest flyers, his calloused palm brushing hers when they both reached for the same sheet advertising a library-hosted vintage logging history talk. He glanced up, and caught her staring at the thin scar slicing across the back of his left hand, the one he’d gotten when a tree limb snapped mid-jump back in 2017. She didn’t flinch, just smiled, silver streaks catching in the auburn hair falling out of her loose braid. He’d lived in this town for 17 years, and he’d never seen her before.
“New librarian,” she said, like she could read his thought. She wiped a rain drop off her cheek, and he noticed the faint calluses on her fingertips too, the kind you get from digging in a garden, not stacking books. “Moved here three months ago from Portland. Still getting used to how often people don’t move out of the way on sidewalks.”
Rafe huffed a laugh, passing her the stack of flyers he’d picked up. Their fingers brushed again, and this time neither of them pulled away for half a beat longer than necessary. “Half the people here grew up hauling logs for a living. They’re used to taking up all the space they can get.” He nodded at the flyer in her hand. “That logging talk? Half the old timers at the end of the bar could give that lecture in their sleep, no slides needed.”
She laughed, a warm, throaty sound that cut through the noise of the tent. She leaned against the awning post next to him, close enough that her shoulder pressed against his bicep when a group of drunk high school kids pushed past to get to the beer cooler. She didn’t shift away. “I figured. Found a stack of old logging journals in the library basement, dating back to the 1940s. Thought someone might care besides me.” She paused, glancing at him from under her lashes. “I saw your auction piece, by the way. The double-bit axe with the little bear carved into the handle. That’s your work, right?”
Rafe blinked. He’d carved that bear late one night two weeks prior, when he couldn’t sleep, had almost sanded it off before he dropped the axe off, figuring no one would notice something that small. “Yeah. That’s mine.”
“Beautiful work,” she said, and her tone was so genuine it made his chest feel tight, the way it hadn’t in years. He’d gotten so used to people only seeing the rough, quiet ex-smokejumper who never came to potlucks, never dated, never talked to anyone longer than he had to. He almost made an excuse to leave right then, scared of the little flutter in his stomach, scared the whole town would be gossiping about them by tomorrow morning, scared he’d mess this up the way he’d messed up every other soft thing in his life after his wife left.
“Beer here tastes like dishwater,” she said, before he could open his mouth to bolt. “You wanna grab a hot cider from the stand across the parking lot? My treat.”
Rafe nodded before he could talk himself out of it. He grabbed the tattered vinyl tarp he kept rolled up under his arm for sudden rain, held it over both their heads as they jogged across the wet asphalt, his arm slung loosely around her shoulder to keep the tarp from blowing away. He could feel the heat of her through her wool coat, smell the lavender of her shampoo mixing with the rain.
They stood under the general store awning after they got their ciders, steam curling off the paper cups in the cool October air. She told him about her husband, who’d died two years prior from a heart attack, how she’d moved here to get away from the noise of the city, how she’d walked past his little axe shop on Main Street three times already, too nervous to go in, because he always looked so focused when he was working, like he didn’t want to be bothered.
“I don’t bite,” Rafe said, grinning into his cider. His arm was still brushing hers, and he didn’t move it. “I just don’t like small talk.”
“Good,” she said, leaning into his side a little, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I hate small talk too.” She paused, picking at the edge of her cider cup. “I could bring those old logging journals by your shop sometime, if you want. A lot of them have notes from the guys who used to make axes back then. Might be useful for your work.”
Rafe’s throat went dry for a second. He hadn’t invited anyone to his shop except his steel supplier in eight years. The last time he’d let a woman in there, it was his wife, the week before she left. He almost said no, almost told her he didn’t need the help, almost ran for his truck like a coward. But he looked at her, at the way she was watching him, no pity, no expectation, just curiosity, and he nodded. “Yeah. That sounds good.” He pulled a crumpled receipt out of his jacket pocket, scribbled his cell number on the back, handed it to her. “I’m there most days till 6.”
The first firework went off over the ocean just then, painting the sky bright red, and they both turned to watch. They stood there for the whole ten minute show, shoulders pressed tight together, no talking, just the boom of the fireworks and the sound of the crowd cheering in the distance. When the last one faded, leaving faint gray smoke curling across the dark sky, she turned to him, grinning, rain drops still caught in her hair. “I’ll call you Tuesday,” she said.
She walked to her beat up Subaru parked at the edge of the lot, waved once before she pulled out. Rafe stood there for another five minutes, sipping the last of his cold cider, the ghost of her shoulder pressed against his arm still warm under his jacket. He tucked the flyer for the logging talk, which he’d grabbed when they left the beer tent, into the pocket of his jeans, turned, and walked toward his truck, not even caring if half the town had seen them standing together.
