Clay Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service hotshot crew lead, stood in the Friday night VFW fish fry line, scuffing the heel of his work boot into the gravel parking lot. He’d showed up out of habit more than anything, seven years straight since his wife Linda passed, same spot in line, same order: two pieces of cod, extra tartar, coleslaw no onion, a plastic cup of lemonade so sweet it made his teeth ache. The air reeked of fried batter and charcoal smoke, a George Strait track warbling through the crackling outdoor speakers, groups of guys he’d worked fire lines with slapping each other on the back, yelling over each other about the upcoming 2024 fire season predictions, which the local news had been fearmongering about nonstop for three weeks straight. A scar sliced through his left eyebrow, a souvenir from the 2018 Eagle Creek fire, and his hands were so calloused from carving driftwood furniture in his garage most days he could pick up a hot coal without flinching, most days.
He almost dropped his plate when he got to the serving table. Mia Carter was there, 49, Linda’s younger brother’s ex-wife, volunteering, wiping lemonade condensation off the edge of the table with a ragged dish towel, her dark hair streaked with gray pulled back in a loose braid, a smear of huckleberry pie filling on the side of her wrist. They’d only spoken a handful of times in 30 years, mostly at family funerals and Christmas dinners, always with a weird, charged silence between them, the kind that made Linda nudge him under the table and tease him about being an awkward oaf. He’d avoided her entirely after her divorce three years prior, convinced even saying hello would feel like he was breaking some unspoken rule he’d written for himself after Linda died: no messing with family, no casual hookups, no letting anyone get close enough to notice how empty the house felt most nights.
He reached for the lemonade pitcher at the same time she did, their knuckles brushing, and he pulled his hand back like he’d touched a live wire. She laughed, low and warm, and held eye contact for two full beats longer than she should have, no look away, no awkward smile, just held it, the corner of her mouth tugging up. “Clay Bennett. I thought that was you. I saw that driftwood dining table you posted in the neighborhood swap group last week. Been meaning to reach out about it, my new apartment has this weird nook by the window nothing fits right in.” Her voice was softer than he remembered, and she smelled like vanilla and pine, the same perfume Linda used to wear on date nights, and for half a second he thought he might pass out right there, his throat tight, half guilt-ridden disgust half something warm and sharp he hadn’t felt in years.
He mumbled a greeting, took his plate, and sat at the farthest empty picnic table he could find, facing away from the serving line, already kicking himself for not just bailing and eating a frozen burrito at home. Ten minutes later, she slid into the bench across from him, setting a slice of huckleberry pie down in front of him without asking, the crust still flaky, a dollop of whipped cream melting on top. “Figured you’d skip dessert. You always did when Linda made it, said it was too sweet, but you’d sneak a bite off her plate every time.” She leaned in when she said it, her elbow propped on the table, the knee of her jeans brushing his under the table, and he didn’t move away. He glanced over at the group of his old crew guys a few tables over, half expecting them to be staring, but they were too busy arguing about who could lift a cinder block over their head the longest to pay him any mind.
They talked for an hour, first about the fire relief fundraiser the VFW was running, how both of them had lost their small cabins outside of town in the 2020 Holiday Farm fire, how it still felt weird to drive past the empty lots where they used to spend weekends, no pine trees, nothing but black stumps and new grass coming in. He told her about the work he did with the local youth fire crew, teaching 16 year olds how to dig fire lines, how half of them couldn’t tell a chainsaw from a weed whacker when they first showed up. She told him about her new job as the part-time librarian at the downtown branch, how the teen section was full of kids reading graphic novels about wildland firefighters, how she’d thought of him when she saw them. The entire time, her knee stayed pressed to his, their hands brushing every time they reached for their drinks, the tension so thick he could taste it, sweet like lemonade, sharp like the pine air off the river a block away.
When the VFW started folding up the tables at 8, she asked him if he wanted to walk her to her truck, parked down the path by the Deschutes River, the sunset painting the water pink and orange, the air cool enough that he pulled his flannel tighter around his shoulders. He wanted to say no, wanted to tell her it was a bad idea, that they shouldn’t do this, that Linda would be mad, but the words got stuck in his throat. Halfway down the path, she stopped at a weathered wooden bench, sat down, and patted the spot next to her. “Linda told me once, right after she got her first cancer diagnosis, that if anything ever happened to her, she wanted me to make sure you didn’t turn into a hermit. Said you were too stubborn to ask for help, that you’d sit in that empty house forever if someone didn’t kick your ass into going outside.”
That was the crack in the wall he’d built around himself. He sat down next to her, so close their shoulders were pressed together, and admitted he’d thought about her more times than he could count over the past three years, that he’d felt guilty every single time, like he was betraying Linda, like he was doing something dirty and wrong. She turned to face him, her hand brushing the scar on his eyebrow, her palm warm against his skin, and he didn’t pull away. “Life’s too short to follow rules that don’t make sense anymore, Clay. Half this town burned down four years ago. We don’t get as many do-overs as we think we do.” She leaned in, and he kissed her, slow, the sound of the river rushing behind them, a group of teens laughing as they floated by on inner tubes, no one paying them any attention. The kiss tasted like huckleberry pie and lemonade, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel guilty for feeling happy.
They got to her truck ten minutes later, a beat up old Toyota Tacoma with a fire department support sticker on the back window, and she handed him her phone to type in his number. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? You can bring the table measurements, and that IPA you like, the one with the pine label. I’ve got a porch out back, we can test if it fits the nook, or not.” He nodded, his calloused fingers fumbling a little as he typed his number in, handed her phone back, and leaned against the hood of the truck as she pulled out of the parking spot, waving at him through the window. He stood there for five minutes after she was gone, the cool river air on his face, the ghost of her kiss still on his lips, and when he turned to walk back to his own truck, he didn’t dread going home to the empty house for the first time in seven years.
