Cole Hewitt, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service ranger, had manned the ID check table at his small Montana town’s annual fall craft beer festival for seven straight years. He’d turned down invitations to man the pour stations, to join the fishing club’s cornhole tournament, to hit the after-party at the roadhouse every single time. He liked the monotony of checking IDs, the predictable rhythm of asking for a date of birth, handing back a driver’s license, waving people through. It was easy, no surprises, no need to talk about the empty house he went home to every night, the way his wife’s old gardening gloves still sat on the back porch rail, unused since she died of ovarian cancer in 2016. His worst flaw, the one his old fishing buddies ribbed him for constantly, was that he refused to let anyone new in. He’d convinced himself any kind of romantic or even casual connection was a betrayal of the 32 years he’d had with Linda.
The sun hung low over the pine-covered hills when she walked up, golden light spilling over the festival grounds, gilding the edges of every neon beer sign and fried food tent. The air smelled like citra hops, fried cheese curds, and the faint pine smoke drifting from the fire pit near the stage where a cover band played 90s country. He didn’t recognize her at first, when she leaned against the edge of the folding table, one boot propped on the lower crossbar, holding out a plastic ID. He picked it up, his calloused, scarred fingers brushing hers. Her skin was cool, like she’d been holding a cold seltzer can for ten minutes straight, and he felt a sharp, unrecognizable jolt shoot up his arm, the kind he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager sneaking Linda into the drive-in.
“C’mon, Cole,” she said, laughing, and the sound clicked. It was Lila Carter, Mike Carter’s stepdaughter, the kid he’d snuck root beer floats to when Mike was on week-long fishing trips, the kid he’d taught to identify pine trees and avoid poison ivy on day hikes back when she was 12. She was 42 now, he realized, scanning the birth date on her ID. No wedding band on her left hand, just a faint, wobbly pine needle tattoo on her wrist, silver hoop earrings catching the sun, her dark hair streaked with a few strands of gray at the temple, same as his. She was still leaning in, close enough that he could smell lavender perfume mixed with the faint tang of seltzer on her breath, her shoulder brushing his when a group of rowdy out-of-state college kids stumbled past the table.
He froze, suddenly hyper-aware of how close she was, how she wasn’t looking away when his gaze darted from her tattoo to her mouth, then back to her eyes. He felt a flash of hot, sharp guilt—this was Mike’s kid, for Christ’s sake, this was the girl he’d driven to soccer practice when her mom was working late. He tried to pull back, to hand her the ID with a quick, gruff welcome, to go back to the monotony he’d clung to for seven years. But she didn’t move. She stayed leaned against the table, one elbow resting on the edge, holding his gaze like she knew exactly what was going through his head.
“Divorce was final three months ago,” she said, nodding at the empty space where her wedding ring used to be, like she was answering a question he hadn’t asked. “Moved back into my mom’s old cabin last week. I’ve been meaning to stop by your place, ask if you’d be willing to show me some of the easier backcountry trails. I started hiking when I was living in Portland, but I don’t know the woods around here as well as I used to, and I hate going alone.”
He opened his mouth to say no, to make an excuse about his knees hurting, about how he didn’t take new people out, about how it wouldn’t look right. The guilt was still there, warring with the weird, warm buzz he’d felt when their hands touched, the way she was smiling at him like she saw him, not just the grumpy old retired ranger everyone in town knew. He didn’t know what to say, so he just stared at her, his throat tight.
“I’m not a kid anymore, Cole,” she said, quiet enough that no one passing by could hear, her tone soft, no teasing, no pressure. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t see me, too. I know you think this is weird. I know you still feel like you’re supposed to be loyal to Linda. My dad mentioned that, actually. He said you haven’t gone on a date since she died, that you turn down every woman who asks you out at the diner. He also said if I don’t make the first move, you’ll spend the rest of your life talking to your hound dog and planting tomato plants alone.”
The laugh burst out of him before he could stop it, loud and rough, the kind of laugh he hadn’t let out in years. The guilt faded, slow, replaced by a giddy, foreign thrill, the kind he associated with sneaking out of the house as a kid, with the first time he’d asked Linda to dance at a high school sock hop. He looked down at her, at the pine needle tattoo on her wrist, at the crinkles around her eyes when she smiled, and realized he’d been fighting for no reason, holding onto a loyalty that Linda would have laughed at. She’d always told him he was too stubborn for his own good, that if something happened to her, he better not mope around the house for the rest of his life.
He handed her ID back, then pushed himself up from the folding chair, his knees creaking a little. “I’m off shift in 10 minutes,” he said, nodding toward the exit of the festival grounds. “The diner on Main still makes those root beer floats you used to beg for. I’ll buy. We can talk about trails after.”
She grinned, pushing off the table, falling into step next to him as he walked toward the volunteer check-in tent to sign out. Their hands brushed twice, once when they stepped off the curb to avoid a group of people carrying coolers, once when he gestured toward the line for food trucks, before he curled his fingers around hers. Her hand was smaller than his, calloused a little at the fingertips, she explained when he asked, from the pottery she made and sold online. The crisp fall air stung his cheeks as they crossed the parking lot, and he couldn’t remember the last time he looked forward to something as simple as a plastic cup of vanilla ice cream and root beer.
