Clay Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service hotshot crew lead, leaned against a split rail fence at the county fairgrounds’ annual fall beer festival, nursing a hazy IPA that tasted more like citrus than beer. His left forearm bore a faded tattoo of a ponderosa pine, crisscrossed with thin, silvery scars from decades of grabbing burning brush, and he’d worn the same frayed forest service hoodie every day for three straight years, a habit he’d picked up after his wife Diane passed seven years prior. His biggest flaw, the one his fishing buddies ribbed him for every weekend, was that he’d locked himself in the same quiet, unchanging routine since her funeral, turning down every set up, every invitation to meet new people, convinced any attempt at joy after her was a betrayal. He’d only agreed to come to the festival that night because his buddy Mike had begged, saying if he spent one more Friday night alone eating frozen burritos and watching old westerns he’d drive over and hide all his huckleberry jam.
The air smelled like roasted nuts, fried Oreos, and pine drifting off the mountains to the west, and a cover band on the main stage was halfway through a rough, loud rendition of *Free Fallin’* when Mara Carter walked up, her boots crunching over fallen cottonwood leaves scattered across the dirt. 56, Diane’s first cousin, she’d moved back to town six months prior after a messy divorce from a lawyer in Seattle, and Clay hadn’t seen her since Diane’s memorial service 12 years prior, when she’d hugged him tight and slipped him a copy of his favorite Louis L’Amour novel before driving back west. She was running a booth selling vintage band tees to raise money for the local animal shelter, wearing a faded 1998 Pearl Jam tour tee, high-waisted denim, and scuffed work boots, a streak of silver cutting through the brown hair pulled back in a loose braid. She leaned against the fence next to him, close enough that he could smell pine shampoo and cinnamon gum on her, and he tensed up immediately, half convinced he was imagining her.
“Recognized the hoodie,” she said, grinning, and her voice was rougher than he remembered, the edge of a former smoker. She held out a neon orange sticker for the shelter, and when he reached to take it, their fingers brushed. He felt the hard callus on her index finger, the same one she’d had in high school from turning hundreds of book pages a week, and he fumbled the sticker for half a second before catching it. A group of drunk college kids stumbled past, and she shifted closer, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep, the warmth seeping through the thin cotton of his hoodie. She told him she’d opened a used bookstore on Main Street three months prior, that she’d had half the town asking about him, that Diane used to write her letters every week talking about how he’d hike three miles into the woods every August to pick the juiciest huckleberries for her jam.
The twist in his chest hit first, sharp and hot, the familiar guilt rising up. He should leave, he told himself. He shouldn’t be standing here talking to her, noticing the tiny scar above her left eyebrow from that camping trip in 2001 when she’d tripped over a root and he’d patched her up with butterfly bandages and a can of beer. He shouldn’t be noticing how her laugh crinkled the corners of her eyes, how she kept glancing at his mouth when he talked. He made an excuse about meeting Mike by the beer tents, but she caught his wrist before he could walk away, her hand small and warm against his scarred skin.
“Wait,” she said, leaning in so he could hear her over the band, her breath brushing his ear. “I got a bottle of small batch bourbon in the back of my truck, parked around the side of the barn away from the noise. We can catch up. No pressure.”
He hesitated for 10 full seconds, thinking about the frozen burrito waiting in his fridge, the empty house he’d lived in alone for seven years, the way Diane used to tease him that Mara was the only other woman on the planet who could put up with his grumpy, stubborn ass. He nodded.
They climbed into the bed of her beat up 2004 Ford F150, the metal cold through his jeans, and she passed him the bourbon bottle, no glass, just the cool glass against his palm. The festival noise was muted back there, only the faint thrum of the band and the distant sound of people laughing carrying over the fence, and string lights strung along the barn roof gilded the edges of her hair when she tilted her head back to take a sip. She told him about the bookstore, how she’d set aside a whole shelf of westerns just for him, how she’d found a first edition of *Hondo* at an estate sale a month prior and had stashed it behind the counter, just in case he ever stopped by. He told her about the huckleberry patch he still went to every August, how he canned 20 jars of jam every year even though he only ate two, giving the rest away to the local food bank.
She reached over to brush a pine needle off his shoulder, and her hand lingered on his jaw for half a second, her thumb brushing the stubble on his cheek. He didn’t pull away. “Diane would have kicked your ass if she knew you’ve been moping alone this whole time,” she said, soft, no teasing in her voice, and he felt the tight knot in his chest he’d carried for seven years loosen just a little. He didn’t feel guilty, not for the first time in years. He just felt warm, like he’d been sitting in front of a fireplace for an hour after being out in the cold.
He told her he’d stop by the bookstore the next afternoon, that he’d bring her a jar of that year’s huckleberry jam if she promised to give him that first edition. She grinned, leaned in, and pressed a soft, slow kiss to his cheek, her lips warm, tasting like bourbon and peppermint. He sat there for a minute after she climbed out of the truck to head back to her booth, the bourbon warm in his belly, the sticker she’d given him stuck to the side of his nearly empty beer can.
He climbed out of the truck 10 minutes later, passing Mike on the way to the parking lot, telling his buddy he was heading home early, ignoring the playful wolf whistle Mike let loose when he noticed the lipstick smudge on his cheek. The October air was cool enough to make his nose run, and the sky was full of bright, sharp stars, no cloud cover. He crumpled the empty beer can in his scarred fist, tossed it in the nearby recycling bin, and unlocked his truck door without glancing back at the fairground gates.
