Rafe Mendez, 62, retired smokejumper turned wildfire mitigation consultant, leans against a splintered pine picnic table at the Gallatin County Fire Department’s annual summer fundraiser, a lukewarm IPA in one hand, the other rubbing the scarred tissue above his left knee. The air smells like charred bratwurst, pine resin, and the faint tang of mosquito repellent, the hum of conversation tangled with the tinny twang of a cover band playing old Johnny Cash tracks down by the dunk tank. He’s avoided this event for three years running, but the new fire chief begged him to show up to sign copies of the self-published memoir he’d put out last year for local high school fire programs, and Rafe never could say no to a fellow firefighter.
He’s just about to ditch the table and sneak out to his truck when a woman drops into the empty bench space next to him, close enough that the sun-warmed fabric of her Forest Service polo brushes his bicep. She’s holding two spiked cherry seltzers, one in each hand, auburn hair streaked blonde from months of trail work pulled back in a messy braid, freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, a thin scar slicing through her left eyebrow from a falling tree limb last spring. “Rafe, right? I’m Lila. I’ve been emailing you for six months about the prescribed burn plans for the Hyalite watershed.”
He blinks, surprised. All their correspondence had been strictly professional, short, to-the-point messages dotted with forest service jargon, no hint of the warm, low laugh that curls around her words now—he’d pictured her as a stuffy desk jockey in a suit, not someone with dirt under her nails and calloused fingertips matched only by his own, worn smooth from years of gripping axes and rappelling gear. She slides one of the seltzers across the table towards him, her knuckles brushing his when he reaches for it, the contact sending a faint, unexpected jolt up his arm. “I read your book, by the way. The part about the 2003 Cave Gulch jump? My dad was on that crew. He talked about you all the time, said you carried a rookie out of the burn zone with a broken leg and a pine sapling stuck through your pack.”
Rafe’s throat goes dry. He hasn’t talked about Cave Gulch with anyone outside his old crew in years, hasn’t thought about that day without a twist of guilt in his gut. He shifts, his bad knee knocking against hers under the table, and he flinches before he can stop himself. She notices immediately, leaning in a little closer, her hand resting lightly on his knee through the worn denim of his work jeans, the heat of her palm seeping straight through the fabric to the scar tissue beneath. “You okay? That jump injury, right? I read your incident report. You tore your ACL landing on a boulder, finished the shift anyway.”
The contact makes his skin prickle, and for half a second he wants to yank his leg away, feels a hot flash of shame twisting in his chest. He hasn’t let anyone touch him that wasn’t a doctor or a hardware store clerk handing him a bag of nails since his wife Karen died eight years prior. She’d made him promise before she passed that he wouldn’t shut himself off from the world, that he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life holed up in their cabin alone, but he’d stuck to that routine anyway, convinced that feeling anything for anyone else was a betrayal, that he didn’t deserve to be happy after she was gone.
He opens his mouth to make an excuse to leave, to say he has an early meeting the next day, but she pulls a crumpled patch from the pocket of her cut-off jean shorts, holding it out to him. It’s an old 2003 Cave Gulch smokejumper patch, frayed at the edges, the stitching faded from sun exposure. “Dad kept it in his truck until he died last year. He said you were the only son of a bitch he ever trusted to have his back in a burn. I wanted to give it to you.”
The sun is dipping low over the Bridger Mountains now, painting the sky in streaks of tangerine and soft lavender, the noise of the fundraiser fading into a low hum as he takes the patch from her, his fingers brushing hers again. She’s leaning in, so close he can smell the coconut sunscreen on her skin, see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, no pity there, no awkwardness, just a warm, unapologetic curiosity. “I know you’ve been alone a long time,” she says, quiet enough that only he can hear it. “I’m not asking for a ring or a dinner date every Sunday. I just wanted you to know I think you’re the kind of man worth showing up for.”
He doesn’t overthink it, for the first time in years. He leans in, slow, giving her time to pull away if she wants, and she meets him halfway, their lips brushing soft at first, then firmer, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his face, her thumb brushing the scar on his jaw from a falling branch in 2012. She tastes like cherry seltzer and mint, and for the first time since Karen died, he doesn’t feel guilty for feeling good, doesn’t feel like he’s breaking a promise. He pulls back after a minute, lacing his fingers through hers, her hand small but strong in his, marked with the same kind of small, permanent scars he’s collected his whole career.
“I got a spot up the road, ten minutes outside town,” he says, nodding towards his beat up 2008 Ford F150 parked at the edge of the lot. “Clear view of the valley. The Perseid meteors are supposed to be peaking tonight. You wanna go?”
She grins, squeezing his hand, tucking the patch into the pocket of his faded 2018 fire season hoodie for him. “Only if you tell me the real story about the Cave Gulch jump. The one you left out of the book where you had to use your parachute cord to stitch up the rookie’s arm.”
