Cole Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service hotshot crew foreman, had been dragged to the fire hall summer beer pop-up against his will. Four years a widower, he’d spent most of his time since his wife’s cancer diagnosis holed up in his cabin off Route 7, fixing old chainsaws and camping alone in the backcountry, avoiding small town events where everyone wanted to ask how he was holding up or stare at the burn scars snaking up his right arm. His old crewmate Jimmie had shown up on his porch at 5 p.m. with a six pack and a threat to change the lock on Cole’s hunting blind if he didn’t come, so he’d caved, throwing on his faded 2018 fire crew hoodie and scuffed work boots, already mentally planning his escape 30 minutes in. He was still furious at Elara Voss, the 52-year-old new county librarian, after the county council meeting three months prior, when he’d called her a disconnected city transplant who didn’t care about local history for proposing they move the 2020 wildfire memorial posters from the library’s main lobby to a back hallway to make space for a pride month display.
He was leaning against the cinder block wall by the beer tap, half listening to Jimmie ramble about his grandson’s little league winning home run, when he heard that laugh. Low, rough, like she spent half her time yelling over rowdy study groups and the other half smoking menthols on the library back porch. He glanced over, and it was her. She wasn’t wearing the frumpy navy blazer and cat-eye glasses she’d had on at the meeting. She was in cutoff denim overalls over a faded white tank top, work boots caked in creek mud, a thin silver scar snaking up her left forearm from wrist to elbow, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid streaked with more gray than he remembered. She was leaning against the opposite wall, talking to the local high school art teacher, holding a seltzer can, and when she caught him staring, she didn’t look away. She lifted her can in a tiny, teasing toast, one eyebrow raised. He froze, then nodded awkwardly, taking a too-big sip of hazy IPA that burned going down his throat.
Jimmie bailed ten minutes later, getting a frantic call from his wife that she’d locked herself out of the house with the oven on, leaving Cole alone with his half-empty beer. He was already shifting his weight to leave when she walked over. She stopped less than two feet away, close enough that he could smell the pine soap on her skin and the faint, sweet tang of lavender hand cream, no heavy perfume, no frills. “You still mad at me?” she asked, loud enough to cut over the bluegrass band playing by the garage doors, her voice softer than it was at the council meeting. He grunted, scuffing a loose chunk of concrete with his boot. “You disrespected three guys who died saving this town,” he said, no bite left, not when he could see her scar glowing pink in the string light glow. She lifted her arm, tapping the scar with one calloused finger. “I was in that fire,” she said. “Lost my cabin off Route 12. Spent three days in the burn unit in Missoula. Those posters, all the photos of the smoke, the charred trees? I couldn’t walk into the library without having a panic attack. I didn’t think anyone would care if I moved them, not until you yelled at me.”
Cole blinked, realizing he’d never bothered to ask why she wanted the posters moved, just jumped to the conclusion that she was another out-of-town liberal who didn’t get local context. He’d always been that way, stubborn to a fault, locking into an opinion and refusing to budge— it’s what made him a good crew lead, but a pain in the ass to anyone who didn’t know him, it’s what made him push away half his friends after his wife died, too stubborn to admit he needed help. He rubbed the back of his neck, the scar there from a 2016 tree fall prickling under his hoodie. “I was an asshole,” he said, surprised at how easy it was to say. “Shoulda asked you why before I yelled.” She smiled, not a smug I-told-you-so smirk, a soft one that put crinkles at the corners of her eyes, and she stepped a little closer, their shoulders brushing when a group of teens walked past between them. The contact was light, but it sent a jolt up his spine; he hadn’t been that close to a woman who wasn’t a cashier or his doctor since his wife died. “I was an asshole too,” she said, her hand brushing his arm when she gestured to the band behind him, her fingertips rough like she worked with her hands more than she turned book pages. “I shoulda asked what the posters meant to you guys. Turns out we both had good reasons to be mad.”
They talked for 45 minutes, standing so close their knees bumped every time one of them shifted their weight. He told her about the three guys they lost in 2020, one only 22, with a baby on the way. She told him she moved to town two years ago to get away from Chicago, fixes up old vintage campers in her spare time, that’s why her boots were caked in mud, she’d been working on a 1972 Airstream that morning. She held his gaze the whole time, no looking away, no awkward fidgeting, like she actually cared what he had to say, not just being polite. When a brewery employee came around with free samples of a new citrus IPA, she reached for one at the same time he did, their hands brushing again, this time he didn’t yank his away, he let his fingers linger against hers for half a second before he grabbed the sample cup, and she grinned, like she knew exactly what she was doing.
The band cranked up the volume, a group of college kids home for the summer started yelling and cheering, and she leaned in so her mouth was right next to his ear, her breath warm against his skin. “You wanna get out of here?” she asked. “There’s a spot down by the river where you can see the sunset, no noise, no crowds.” He didn’t even hesitate, even though 24 hours prior he would’ve rather sat through a three hour county zoning meeting than spend time alone with her. He nodded, downed the last of his beer, set the empty cup on a nearby folding table. She led him out the side door, her hand brushing his once more when they stepped out into the cool evening air, the smell of cut grass and pine drifting over from the woods at the edge of town. When she stopped at the edge of the path and held out her hand to help him down the steep, rocky slope leading to the water, he laced his fingers through hers without a second thought.
