Clay Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service ranger, leaned against the side of the cold beer truck at the small-town fire department fundraiser, plastic cup of hazy IPA sweating in his grip. He’d showed up only because his old patrol partner had badgered him into it, said it was good for him to get out of the cabin he’d holed up in since his wife Elly died seven years prior. Clay’s biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he’d turned rigid, unyielding, convinced any deviation from his routine of chopping wood, fixing fences, and watching old westerns was a betrayal of the life he’d built with Elly. The sun was dipping low over the pines, gilding the edges of the crowd, and the air smelled like grilled brats, charcoal, and the faint, sharp tang of pine smoke from the bonfire at the far end of the lot.
He’d been half-ready to leave 20 minutes earlier, until he spotted her. Lila Marlow, 42, the town’s new fire chief, Elly’s first cousin, the kid he’d driven to soccer practice and patched up after tree-climbing accidents when she was a teenager. She’d moved back to town three months prior, brought in after last summer’s record wildfires stretched the local department thin, and Clay had deliberately avoided running into her until now. She wore a frayed navy fire department tee cut off at the biceps, cutoff denim shorts, scuffed steel-toe boots, and her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid, a few stray strands stuck to the sweat glistening on her neck. She spotted him before he could duck behind the stack of beer cases, and she grinned, long and lazy, before she started walking over.
She stopped so close he could smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, acrid scent of fire retardant clinging to her shirt cuffs, and the cold side of her own beer cup brushed his wrist when she lifted it in a greeting. “Clay Bennett. I’d know that beat-up leather work belt anywhere. You’ve had that thing since I was 17.” Her voice was deeper than he remembered, rough around the edges from years of yelling over sirens and wind, and she held eye contact longer than strictly necessary, no trace of the shy, gangly teen he’d known left in her sharp, steady gaze. He tensed up, half-ready to step back, but there was a stack of metal folding chairs propped against the truck behind him, so he stayed put, his bicep brushing her elbow when she shifted her weight to lean against the truck beside him.
He told himself he was being an idiot, that this was wrong, that she was family, that he had no business noticing the dark freckles scattered across her shoulders, or the thin, silvery scar on her left forearm from the time she’d fallen out of a pine tree behind his cabin when she was 19, the same scar he’d stitched up himself on his kitchen table with Elly holding the flashlight. The guilt curdled in his gut, sharp and bitter, and he took a long sip of his beer to avoid talking, the hoppy taste bitter on his tongue. Peanut shells crunched under their boots as a group of kids ran past, and the distant yell of the guy running the 50/50 raffle cut through the hum of the crowd. Lila’s knee brushed his when she turned to point at a group of rookie firefighters goofing off by the dunk tank, and he felt a jolt go up his spine that he hadn’t felt in close to a decade.
“Fixing up the old Marlow cabin up on the north ridge, the one my dad left me,” she said, turning back to him, her shoulder pressed lightly to his now, no space left between them. “Roof’s got half a dozen holes in it from last winter’s ice storms. I remember you could patch a roof faster than any crew Elly ever hired. Was gonna ask if you’d help me out next weekend. I’ll pay you in beer and the world’s best smoked brisket. My recipe.”
Clay hesitated, his throat tight. He wanted to say yes so bad it ached, but the guilt was still there, loud in his ear, telling him he was betraying Elly, that this was a line he shouldn’t cross. He shook his head, starting to say no, when she tilted her head, her expression softening, no teasing left in her eyes. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear. “Elly told me, right before she went into the hospital for the last time, that if you ever locked yourself up in that cabin and refused to live anymore, I was supposed to kick your ass until you remembered how to have fun. She said you’d be too stubborn to do it on your own.”
Clay froze, his grip on the beer cup tightening until the plastic crinkled. He hadn’t known that. He’d spent seven years convinced Elly would want him to mourn her forever, to stay stuck in the life they’d had, no new people, no new memories. Lila reached out, brushing a stray pine needle off the shoulder of his faded flannel shirt, her fingers lingering on the rough fabric for a beat longer than necessary, her thumb brushing the edge of the scar he had on his collarbone from a 2018 wildfire, a scar she’d heard about but never seen up close. The warmth of her touch seeped through the thin cotton, and for the first time in years, the guilt didn’t feel like it was crushing him.
He nodded, his voice rough when he spoke. “8 a.m. Saturday. I’ll bring my nail gun and my ladder. Don’t skimp on the brisket.”
Lila laughed, bright and loud, and she pressed her unlocked phone into his hand so he could type his number in, her palm warm and calloused against his when she handed it over. A voice yelled her name from across the lot, one of the rookies begging her to take a turn in the dunk tank, and she leaned in to give him a quick, tight hug before she left, her braid brushing his jaw, the coconut sunscreen smell wrapping around him for a split second before she pulled away.
He stood there for another 10 minutes, sipping his now-warm beer, watching as she climbed onto the dunk tank platform, taunting the rookie holding the ball, before he threw it and sent her splashing into the cold water, her laugh carrying across the lot even when she was submerged. He didn’t feel guilty when he smiled, or when he typed her number into his own phone as soon as he got back to his truck, or when he spent the drive home thinking about how good that brisket was gonna taste next weekend. He unlocked his cabin door, kicked off his boots, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t reach for the stack of old westerns he watched every night. He pulled his tool belt off the hook by the door, checked the charge on his nail gun, and set it by the front porch so he wouldn’t forget it Saturday morning.
