Roman Voss, 62, leans against the dented chrome bumper of his 1972 Ford F250, twisting the tab off a sweat-slick Coors Banquet. He bailed on the smokejumper memorial gala an hour prior, couldn’t stomach small talk with strangers who only knew the version of him that used to jump out of planes into burning forests, not the guy who’d spent the last 8 years hiding out in his workshop restoring old trucks and running a one-man wildfire safety consulting firm. His wife Lori died of ovarian cancer in 2015, and he’d pulled away from every person who’d ever known the two of them together, convinced any joy that didn’t involve her was a betrayal. That’s the flaw he won’t admit out loud, even to himself: he’s turned grief into a cage, and he’s forgotten how to unlock the door.
Golden hour bleeds orange over the Boise foothills, the air thick with the smell of fried onions from the food truck at the edge of the weekly classic car meet, the low rumble of big block V8s thrumming through the soles of his scuffed work boots. He’s staring at the custom hand-painted smokejumper logo on the truck’s door when he hears a laugh he’d recognize anywhere, warm and rough around the edges, the same laugh that used to cut through the chaos of post-fire crew cookouts 15 years prior.
Maren Hale is 58, auburn hair streaked with gray pulled back in a loose braid, wearing cutoff denim shorts and a faded “Jake’s Jumpers” crew shirt, a thin scar snaking up her left wrist from the time she crashed an ATV on a crew camping trip in 2011. She’s holding a glass of peach seltzer, condensation beading down the sides, and she stops only a foot away from him, closer than most people dare get these days, holding his gaze for three full beats longer than polite convention allows. She’s Jake’s widow. Jake was his crew chief for 17 years, the man who taught him how to pack a parachute, how to read a wildfire’s mood, how to propose to Lori when he was too scared to get the words out. Jake died of a sudden heart attack three months prior. Roman sent a generic sympathy card and didn’t show up to the service, too ashamed of how he’d ghosted the entire crew after Lori died.
He freezes, beer halfway to his mouth. She smiles, and the corner of her mouth tugs up the same way it used to when she caught him sneaking extra pecan pie at crew dinners. “Knew I’d find you here,” she says, and her voice is softer than he remembers. She steps closer to get a better look at the logo on the truck door, and when she reaches out to tap the painted number 7 (his old crew number) her knuckle brushes the back of his hand where it rests on the sun-warmed fender. He feels the callus on her middle finger from decades of tending rose bushes, the cool press of her skin against his, and he flinches at first, half out of surprise, half out of a sharp, hot jolt of guilt. He shouldn’t be noticing how soft her skin is, shouldn’t be breathing in the lavender shampoo and cedar sachet scent that lingers around her, shouldn’t be wishing she’d stay a little longer.
They talk for 45 minutes, leaning against the truck’s fender, the noise of the car meet fading into background static. She tells him she sold the house in Missoula, moved to Boise to be near her 7-year-old granddaughter, who’s obsessed with competitive horseback riding. He tells her about the consulting work, about the F250, how he spent three years rebuilding it piece by piece in his garage after Lori died, buying parts off Facebook Marketplace and staying up till 2 a.m. covered in grease to avoid the quiet of the empty house. She mentions Jake talked about him often, said he knew Roman just needed time to work through his grief, never held the ghosting against him. The guilt twists in his chest, warring with the warm, bright buzz of being seen by someone who knew both of the people he’d lost, someone who doesn’t expect him to be fine, doesn’t ask him when he’s going to “get over it.”
When she leans in to hand him a crumpled old photo of the four of them—Roman, Lori, Jake, Maren—grinning drunk at the 2010 crew Christmas party, their shoulders press together, and neither of them pulls away. He can feel the heat of her arm through his thin cotton work shirt, can smell the peach fizz of her seltzer when she laughs at the sight of Roman’s terrible 2010 goatee. For the first time in 8 years, the voice in his head screaming that he doesn’t deserve to be happy goes quiet. He doesn’t feel like he’s betraying Lori, doesn’t feel like he’s betraying Jake. He just feels like a guy who’s been alone for too long, talking to a woman who’s also been alone for too long, in a parking lot full of old cars and cheap beer.
He asks her if she wants to get dinner at the diner downtown, the one that serves the smoked meatloaf they all used to drive 45 minutes to eat after weekend training drills. She grins, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and when he opens the passenger door of the F250 for her, she lets her hand rest on his bicep for two full seconds before climbing in. The rumble of the truck’s engine drowns out the noise of the car meet as he pulls onto the street, the crumpled photo tucked safely in the pocket of his work shirt.
