Rafe Sorenson, 59, retired wildland fire crew boss, had avoided the annual Missoula summer street fair for seven straight years. The last time he’d gone, his wife had dragged him from booth to booth, forcing him to try fried Oreos and dance to a bad country cover band in the grass, her laugh loud enough to cut through the buzz of cicadas. He’d spent the years since her sudden heart attack sticking to a rigid routine: restoring vintage fire pumpers at the county historical museum four days a week, a single bourbon on the rocks at the same dive bar every Friday, and quiet nights on his cabin porch listening to elk bugle in the nearby mountains. His biggest flaw, the one he wouldn’t admit out loud even if you pressed a bottle of his favorite 12-year bourbon to his lips, was that he’d convinced himself any joy not tied to her memory was a betrayal.
He’d only showed up this year because the museum had a booth showcasing the restored 1972 pumper he’d spent six months rebuilding, and the director had begged him to man it for an hour. The sun beat down on the back of his neck, turning the skin under his cut-off fire crew hoodie pink, and by 4 p.m. he’d snuck away to hunt for a cold lemonade, boots kicking up dust on the paved street. He reached for the last frozen lemonade cup on the stand at the same time a woman with a streak of electric blue in her wavy brown hair did, their knuckles brushing.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling his hand back fast, the rough callus on her index finger lingering on his skin like a static shock. Then he recognized her. Lila. His wife’s youngest cousin, the one who’d been 16 when he got married, who’d snuck a bottle of his beer at the wedding and gotten sick in the rose bushes. He hadn’t seen her since the funeral, when she’d hugged him tight and said she was sorry, her face pressed into his dress shirt.
She blinked, then grinned, the same gap between her two front teeth he remembered from family holidays. “Rafe. I thought that was you. I’ve seen you at the Rusty Spur a few times on Fridays, didn’t want to bother you.” She’d moved back to town three months prior, she said, to open a small houseplant shop on the west side, after 15 years in Portland. He nodded, his throat tight, half of him wanting to mumble an excuse and walk back to his booth, the other half rooted to the spot, unable to look away from the gold flecks in her hazel eyes when she tilted her head up to talk to him, a full head shorter than he was.
He offered to buy her the lemonade. She said yes, and when they walked away from the stand, she stayed close enough that her shoulder brushed his bicep every other step, the scent of jasmine lotion and fresh potting soil wrapping around him, sharp and sweet and nothing like the lavender perfume his wife had worn every day for 30 years. That should have felt wrong. It didn’t, and that made his chest ache, a strange mix of guilt and curiosity he hadn’t felt in years.
They stopped to watch a group of teens do skate tricks in the closed-off parking lot, then wandered to the food court where she bought him a fried Oreo, insisting he had to try the new salted caramel version. He ate it, crumbs sticking to the stubble on his jaw, and when she laughed at the smudge of powdered sugar on his cheek, he didn’t wipe it off right away. She told him about her shop, about the rescue cat she’d adopted that kept knocking over potted succulents, and he told her about the pumper he’d restored, about the 2018 blaze that had left the scar snaking across his left forearm. She reached out to run a finger along the edge of the scar without thinking, her touch warm, and he didn’t flinch.
He stared at her, the words knocking the air out of him. He’d spent seven years convinced he was honoring her, that staying alone was the right thing, that even looking at another woman was a betrayal. The thought had made him sick, more times than he could count, but sitting there next to Lila, the warmth of her leg against his, the sound of her laugh still ringing in his ears, he realized he’d been wrong.
She looked up at him then, her eyes soft, and when she leaned in a fraction, he didn’t pull away. Her lips were soft, tasting like lemonade and salt, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel a stab of guilt when he kissed her back. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer slow, like he was afraid she’d vanish if he moved too fast, and she rested her head on his shoulder when they pulled apart, her hand splayed across his chest over his t-shirt.
A kid ran by a few minutes later, yelling about glow sticks, and Rafe flagged him down, pulling a five dollar bill out of his wallet. He bought two neon green sticks, cracked one so it glowed bright, and tucked it behind Lila’s ear, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her cheek.
