Javi Mendez, 59, spent 28 years on a federal wildland firefighting hotshot crew before a 2021 blaze took half his left ear and left him with a permanent limp that acted up when the Montana air turned sharp in October. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he’d spent the seven years since his wife’s cancer death pushing every possible connection away, even from old crewmates, preferring the quiet of his 12 acre woodlot to the forced cheer of small-town events. He’d only showed up to the county harvest festival that Saturday because his 16-year-old niece had entered an apple pie and begged him to come watch the judging.
He was leaning against the folding table stacked with pie tins, half hidden behind a bale of decorative hay, when Clara bumped into his elbow. She was the new neighbor, 56, who’d moved into the cottage three miles down his road three months prior, running a tiny herbal apothecary out of her sunroom, and Javi had gone out of his way to avoid her so far, ducking behind his wood splitter when she’d waved from her truck on the dirt road twice before. She was holding three glass jars of honey-cider vinegar, her canvas tote slung over one shoulder, and the jolt sent one jar slipping before she caught it against his chest.
“Sorry, that kid on the scooter almost took my ankles out,” she said, laughing, and she was close enough that Javi could smell cedar and clove on her wool sweater, the faint sweet tang of the vinegar in the jar she was still pressing to his flannel shirt. Her boot brushed his scuffed work boot where he was propping his weight on his good leg, and when she looked up at him, her hazel eyes held his for three full beats longer than casual politeness called for, crinkling at the corners like she knew he’d been avoiding her.
He mumbled some half-coherent apology for being in the way, and made to step around her, but she held out the jar in her hand, the label scrawled in her loopy handwriting. “You’re the guy who sells firewood, right? I’ve been meaning to track you down. I burn exclusively oak, and everyone says you’re the only one around who seasons it for two full years instead of one.”
He nodded, his throat tight. He’d not had a one-on-one conversation that lasted longer than 30 seconds with a woman who wasn’t his niece or the grocery store cashier in seven years, and half his brain was screaming to leave, to make an excuse about checking on his pie, to go hide in his truck and drive home to his cold beer and his hound dog. The other half was fixated on the calluses on her fingers where she was holding the jar, the faint smudge of chamomile stain on her wrist, the way a strand of chestnut hair had fallen loose from its braid over one shoulder.
He agreed to help her carry the rest of her jars to her vendor booth near the craft tables, mostly because he couldn’t think of a polite way to say no. Halfway there, a group of kids darted between them chasing a golden retriever, and she grabbed his forearm to steady herself, her palm warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. He froze for half a second, and she let go immediately, apologizing, but he shook his head, said it was fine, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.
They set the jars down on her table, and she poured him a paper cup of spiced cider, still steaming, and they leaned against the side of her booth while the pie judging went on down the row. He told her about his wife, the way she’d loved this festival, how he’d avoided it every year until this one, and she nodded, told him she’d lost her husband to a construction accident four years before, that she’d moved to Montana to get away from the house they’d built together in Portland, that she still felt guilty every time she laughed at a joke that wasn’t his.
That was the crack in the wall he’d built around himself, the realization that she got it, that she didn’t look at him like he was a broken thing to be pitied, that she knew what it felt like to be disgusted with yourself for even wanting to feel normal again, for wanting to feel something other than grief.
When the announcement came over the loudspeaker that the annual hay bale ride out to the west overlook to watch the sunset was loading up, she tilted her head at him, a half-smile on her face. “You wanna go? I heard the fall colors are perfect up there this year. No pressure if you don’t.”
He almost said no. Almost made an excuse about needing to get home to feed his dog. But he looked at her, at the way she was twisting the edge of her sweater between her fingers, like she was nervous he’d say no, and he nodded.
The hay ride was bumpy, the old farm truck bouncing over rutted dirt roads, and they sat next to each other on the top bale, their shoulders brushing every time the truck hit a pothole. Neither of them pulled away. When they got to the overlook, the rest of the group spread out to take photos, and they hung back by the edge of the cliff, watching the sun paint the larch trees gold and pink and orange. She pointed out a red-tailed hawk circling high above the valley, and her hand brushed his when she lifted her arm to point. He didn’t move away. He laced his fingers through hers, slow, like he was afraid she’d pull back, and she squeezed his hand, once, soft.
He kissed her as the sun dipped below the ridgeline. It was gentle, no rush, and she tasted like cinnamon and cider, the chapped edge of her lip catching on his. He didn’t feel guilty. For the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel like he was doing something wrong.
They rode the hay ride back down to the festival as the string lights turned on, the air cold enough that their breath fogged in front of them. She invited him back to her cottage for butternut squash soup, said she’d baked cornbread that afternoon, and he said yes, no hesitation, no internal fight, no excuses. His niece had won third place in the pie contest, had left a slice for him on the pie table with a sticky note that said “u owe me $5 for ingredients”, and he tucked it into a paper bag to bring with him.
He tucked the jar of honey-cider vinegar he’d bought from her into his coat pocket, his knuckles brushing hers as they stepped over a puddle of spilled cider on the sidewalk.
