Rudy Galvan, 62, retired wildland fire crew supervisor, leaned against the dented bed of his 2008 Ford F-150, sweating through the faded Nomex shirt he’d refused to throw out even four years after he hung up his hard hat. He’d only shown up to the county fire department’s annual chili cookoff because his old crew had badgered him for three weeks straight, saying the new junior team wanted to meet the guy who’d once carried a 190 pound hiker out of a burning pine stand in New Mexico. He’d planned to drink one beer, eat one bowl of chili, and slip out before anyone could corner him into small talk about his “quiet little retirement.”
The air reeked of smoked brisket, cumin, and cheap beer, the kind that comes in 30 packs and tastes like canned regret if you drink more than two. He was mid-sip when a woman tripped over a cooler cord at his feet, and he reacted faster than he thought he still could, snaking one arm out to catch her by the elbow before she face-planted into a stack of paper plates. Her skin was sun-warmed, dotted with freckles across the forearm, and she smelled like lemon furniture polish and a faint hit of peach schnapps, like she’d spiked her lemonade when no one was looking. She held his gaze for a full two beats longer than polite, grinning, when she steadied herself. “Sorry about that. I’m notoriously clumsy around guys who look like they could lift a cinder block one-handed without breaking a sweat.”
Rudy pulled his hand back fast, like he’d touched a hot stove. He’d not let any woman get within a foot of him longer than ten seconds since Linda died, convinced even a casual conversation was some kind of betrayal, like he was erasing the 38 years they’d had together. He mumbled a gruff “don’t mention it” and turned to walk away, but she didn’t push, just held out a paper plate with a thick slice of peach pie on it, crust crimped perfectly at the edges, still steaming a little at the center. “Peace offering. Grandma’s recipe. Haven’t had anyone turn it down yet, and I don’t plan on starting today.”
He took it, against his better judgment. The crust was flaky, the filling sweet but not cloying, and he found himself leaning against the pickup next to her instead of walking off, like his feet had forgotten how to move. She said her name was Elara, 58, the new county librarian, moved out from Portland six months prior because she was sick of 10 straight months of rain and people yelling at her for carrying a pocket knife in her purse. She had a streak of silver running through the front of her dark wavy hair, and a tiny scar along her left eyebrow that she said she got punching a guy who groped her at a dive bar in 2009. When he mentioned Linda, the ovarian cancer that took her fast four years prior, the way he still set out a coffee mug for her every morning out of habit, she didn’t give him the sad, pitying head tilt he hated so much. She just nodded, taking a bite of her own pie, and said her ex husband left her for a 28 year old yoga instructor seven years back, and she still caught herself buying his favorite brand of beef jerky at the grocery store sometimes, just out of muscle memory.
The sun dipped below the oak trees as they talked, painting the sky pink and orange, the crowd thinning out as people loaded coolers and folding chairs into their cars. Elara bent to pick up a stack of empty pie tins at her feet, and one slipped out of her hand, clattering to the asphalt. They both bent to grab it at the same time, their heads bumping hard, and Rudy laughed, a real, loud laugh, the first he’d had that didn’t involve a dumb meme his old crew sent him in the group chat in years. She rubbed the top of her forehead, laughing too, and when she stood up her shoulder brushed his, close enough that he could feel the heat through her flannel shirt.
He tensed up, waiting for the familiar guilt to hit, the voice in his head that told him he didn’t get to be happy anymore. But then he thought of Linda, the week before she died, holding his hand and telling him if he spent the rest of his life moping around the house instead of doing dumb, fun stuff, she’d come back and haunt him so bad he’d wish he’d never met her.
“I’ve got a six pack of Shiner Bock in my fridge back at the house, and a box of old John Wayne westerns my dad left me when he died,” Elara said, twisting the ring on her index finger like she was nervous he’d say no. “If you’ve got nothing better to do tonight.”
Rudy hesitated for half a second, then nodded. He helped her load the leftover pies and empty tins into her beat up 2012 Subaru Outback, the back seat stacked full of library books and dog toys even though she said she didn’t have a dog, she just couldn’t say no to the rescue shelter fundraiser sales. When they shut the trunk, she grabbed his hand for just a second, squeezing it, her thumb brushing the thick silvery burn scar that ran up his left forearm, no comment, no pity, just a quiet, soft touch.
She got in her car, rolled the window down, and yelled that she’d leave the porch light on for him. When she pulled out of the parking lot, she flashed her headlights at him once, and he smiled all the way to his truck, the extra slice of peach pie she’d handed him still warm on the seat next to him.
