Clay Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service ranger, had only agreed to man the Missoula Fire Department’s chili booth at the annual downtown street fair to repay a favor to his old smokejumper buddy Jim. Seven years out from his wife Linda’s death, he’d built a small, rigid routine: restore vintage fly reels in his garage six days a week, show up to Wednesday trivia at The Hitching Post bar, speak to no one he didn’t know, avoid all situations that could lead to unwanted small talk. His biggest flaw, the one his late sister used to nag him about, was that he’d rather chew broken glass than admit he might be lonely.
The August heat hung thick enough to sip, smelling of fried funnel cake, diesel from the fair rides, and the sharp, cumin-heavy tang of the three-alarm chili he’d been spooning into sample cups for three hours. Mara, the woman running the Bitterroot Animal Rescue booth two feet to his left, had been a quiet thorn in his side for three months, ever since she’d beaten him by one point at trivia, correctly naming Norm Charlton as the 1987 Seattle Mariners closer when he’d blanked on the name. He’d avoided her table at the bar ever since, even when she waved him over.
Her elbow brushed his when she reached for the stack of napkins he’d set on the shared folding table between their booths. He flinched, like he’d touched a hot cast iron skillet, and she huffed a quiet laugh, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her sunburnt arm. “Still holding a grudge about the trivia question, ranger?” Her nail polish was chipped forest green, the exact shade he’d painted his 1998 Ford F-150 patrol truck back in the day, and he stared at it longer than he should have. He grunted a non-answer, passing a sample cup to a kid in a cowboy hat, and tried not to notice the silver-streaked auburn hair she kept tucking behind her ear, or the tiny bear stud earring glinting in her left lobe—he’d designed those himself, handed them out to teen trail crew volunteers back in the 90s.
The city council stooge showed up at 4 p.m., starched polo stretched tight over his beer gut, clipboard tucked under his arm. He nodded at the space between Clay and Mara, where their boots were almost touching under the table, and cleared his throat. “Ordinance 17-22, folks. Unmarried folks over 50 can’t be within three feet of each other on city property. You’re gonna need to move the booths apart, or I’ll write you both a ticket.” The ordinance had passed three weeks prior, a cheap PR stunt to distract from the news that the council had embezzled $200k earmarked for pothole repairs, and every sane person in town had been mocking it nonstop.
Mara rolled her eyes so hard Clay half expected her to strain something, and she grabbed his wrist, yanking him down behind the booth before the stooge could protest. Their shoulders were pressed tight together, the rough denim of her cutoff shorts brushing his calf, and he could feel the calluses on her palm from hauling dog crates, warm and rough against his skin. The crowd noise faded to a low buzz behind the plastic tablecloth draped over the front of the booth, and she smelled like coconut sunscreen and mint gum, her breath fanning the side of his neck when she leaned in to whisper. “Guy’s got nothing better to do. Just lay low for a second, he’ll leave.”
He’d spent seven years convincing himself he’d never feel that spark again, that any attraction to anyone who wasn’t Linda was a betrayal, a stupid, juvenile waste of time. For half a second he wanted to yank his wrist away, storm off, go home to his empty house and his fly reels and pretend this never happened. But he didn’t. He stayed, his shoulder pressed to hers, and when he glanced down at her, she was already looking at him, a soft smirk on her face, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
She told him she’d been on his 1992 trail crew, 17 years old, covered in mosquito bites, mad that he’d made her carry a 40 pound pack up a 6 mile trail even when she’d complained her feet hurt. She said she’d recognized him the second he walked into The Hitching Post six months prior, that she’d intentionally sat at the table next to his every week, that she’d studied Mariners trivia for a month just to beat him, to get him to talk to her. He felt his face heat up, and he brushed a fleck of chili powder off her cheek with his thumb, intentional this time, not an accident, and she tilted her face into his hand for a split second, like she’d been waiting for him to touch her.
The stooge left after five minutes, and they spent the rest of the afternoon sneaking small touches when no one was looking: a quick brush of their hands when they passed each other a soda, her knee pressing against his under the table when a group of council members walked by, him tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear when she bent down to pet a golden retriever puppy someone had brought to the rescue booth. They laughed so hard they snort-laughed when they had to lean as far apart as possible, fake scowling, every time a city official wandered past, breaking that stupid rule like it was a dare.
By 8 p.m. the fair was winding down, the ride music fading, the smell of funnel cake replaced by the sharp, sweet scent of cotton candy left discarded in the grass. Clay helped her load the metal dog crates into the back of her beat-up Chevy pickup, and she handed him a flyer for a dog adoption event the next weekend, saying she had a three-year-old hound mix that loved hiking, that spent half her time dragging volunteers up trails in the Bitterroot, that would be perfect for someone who still spent most of his days wandering the woods alone. He tucked the flyer in the pocket of his faded flannel shirt, the paper warm from being in her back pocket, and he leaned in to kiss her, slow this time, no one around to see, no stupid ordinance to worry about, her cherry soda sweet on his lips.
He pulled open the passenger door of her truck before he remembered he drove his own pickup to the fair, and didn’t bother correcting the mistake.
