Cole Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service wildfire crew lead, leans against the dented metal beer cooler at the Bend VFW’s monthly fish fry, plastic plate heaped with greasy cod and vinegar-doused coleslaw balanced on his wrist. He’s avoided this event for three months straight, ever since word got around that Mara Hale had moved back to town, but the end of the 2024 Cascadia wildfire season had the whole crew showing up to raise money for displaced families, and he couldn’t say no. His most persistent flaw, the one he’s carried for 32 years on fire lines, is that he never lets anyone down but himself. He’s lived alone in a one-room cabin 20 miles outside town since his wife left him 12 years prior, and he’s made a point of keeping anyone who might see the cracks in his gruff exterior at arm’s length.
The air smells like fried batter, pine, and cheap draft beer, the hum of 70 or so locals layered under a low Alan Jackson track playing through crackling ceiling speakers. He’s halfway through his second beer when he spots her across the room, stacking empty paper plates on a folding table, wearing a faded 1998 Pearl Jam tour tee under an unbuttoned gray flannel, frayed jeans, and scuffed work boots caked in mud. He remembers Jake, her late husband and his crew lead for 8 years, telling him about the scar curling around her left wrist, from a hiking accident when they were 22. He freezes when she looks up, catches his eye, and smiles, not the pitying tight smile most people give him when they remember Jake’s 2019 lightning strike death on the line, but a warm, lopsided one that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
She crosses the room in four long strides, stopping so close he can smell lavender hand lotion and the faint tang of menthol cigarettes, the same brand Jake used to smoke on overnight patrols. “Bennett,” she says, nodding at his plate. “Thought you were hiding out in the woods forever.” She reaches past him to grab a can of IPA from the cooler behind his shoulder, her hip brushing his, her bare forearm brushing the knuckles of his left hand, and he flinches like he’s touched a hot wire. He’s spent five years hating himself for not pulling Jake off that ridge 10 seconds sooner, for being the one to call his death in over the radio, and the thought of even talking to Mara feels like a betrayal, like he’s stealing something he doesn’t deserve. The guilt twists tight in his chest, warring with the stupid, unbidden jolt of desire at how close she is, at the sound of her voice, rough from years of singing too loud at bar shows.
She pulls the beer can back, pops the tab, and leans against the cooler next to him, their shoulders 2 inches apart, no space for the polite distance he’s spent years cultivating. “I found a box of Jake’s old fire photos last week, going through his mom’s storage,” she says, turning to look at him, holding his gaze so he can’t look away. “There’s one of you from the 2017 Gorge fire, covered head to toe in ash, holding that baby deer you carried 3 miles out of the burn zone. Figured you’d want it.” He opens his mouth to say no, to make an excuse about not keeping old mementos, but she cuts him off, soft, no edge. “I know you blame yourself for what happened to Jake. He told me a hundred times you were the only guy he trusted to have his back. That lightning strike was no one’s fault. You didn’t fail him.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He hasn’t talked about Jake’s death with anyone, hasn’t let anyone say that out loud, not even the VA therapist he went to for three sessions before bailing. He can feel heat creeping up his neck, the tight knot of guilt he’s carried for five years starting to loosen, just a little. She shifts closer, her shoulder brushing his now, her hand brushing his elbow, deliberate, not accidental. “I’ve also seen you hanging around my bookstore three times in the last month, lingering in the outdoor section like you’re scared to come in,” she says, teasing, a small smirk playing on her lips. “I’ve had a first edition of *Desert Solitaire* set aside for you for two weeks. Jake said it was your favorite book.”
He stares at her for a long second, the noise of the fish fry fading into background static. The taboo of it hums under his skin—half the people in this room would whisper for months if they saw him leaving Mara’s bookstore with her, if they knew he was even talking to her this close. The part of him that’s spent years punishing himself for every mistake screams that he should walk away, that he doesn’t get to have this, doesn’t get to stop hurting. But the other part, the part that hasn’t felt seen in more than a decade, the part that misses having someone to laugh with, to drink beer with, wins out. “I can stop by tomorrow,” he says, his voice rougher than he expects. “Around 2?”
She grins, bright, and takes a sip of her beer, their knees brushing when she shifts her weight. “2 works. I’ll make a pot of that dark roast you like, the stuff Jake used to bring out to the fire camp.” They talk for another hour, leaning against the cooler, their shoulders pressed together half the time, no one paying them any mind, most of the crowd too busy yelling over the college football game playing on the beat up TV above the bar. She leaves first, slinging a canvas tote bag over her shoulder, telling him not to be late, before she pushes through the screen door, the night air drifting in behind her, sharp with pine and wood smoke.
He finishes the last of his beer, crumples his empty plastic plate, and tosses it in the overflowing trash can by the door. He walks out to his beat up 2008 Ford F-150, the gravel crunching under his work boots, and leans against the hood for a second, staring up at the stars, which are bright enough to see even over the town’s glow. He hasn’t looked forward to anything this much in longer than he can remember. He pulls open the truck door, climbs in, turns the key, and heads for the highway leading back to his cabin, already counting the hours until 2 PM the next day.
