Roman Voss, 62, retired forest fire spotter, sat in his usual corner booth at the Missoula VFW’s weekly fish fry, picking crumbs of fried cod off a chipped paper plate. He’d spent 28 years manning a 70-foot lookout tower in the Bitterroot Range, working 12-hour shifts alone for six months out of every year, and the habit of keeping a 3-foot buffer between himself and anyone else had stuck hard, even three years into retirement. His wife had left him 18 years prior, sick of coming second to a tower that didn’t even have running water, and he’d never bothered trying to date again, convinced he was too gruff, too set in his ways, too used to the quiet of pine trees and wind to make space for another person.
The jukebox blared Johnny Cash’s *Folsom Prison Blues* when the door swung open, cold spring rain blowing in with the woman who stepped inside. Roman recognized her immediately: the gap between her front teeth, the way she tucked a strand of wavy auburn hair behind her left ear when she scanned the room, the scuffed white combat boots she’d worn to his wedding all those years ago. It was Lila, his ex-wife’s 12-years-younger cousin, the girl who’d snuck him a beer during the reception when his ex was busy yelling at the caterer for running out of shrimp. He’d not seen her in 20 years, hadn’t even thought of her in at least a decade, and his throat went dry when her eyes locked on his, a slow, knowing grin spreading across her face.
She weaved through the crowded tables, stopping at his booth without asking, sliding into the seat across from him so close their knees brushed under the Formica tabletop. Roman froze, his calloused hand mid-reach for his half-empty Pabst. He’d not been that close to a woman who wasn’t a grocery store cashier in longer than he could remember, and she smelled like lavender hand sanitizer and citrus perfume, a sharp, warm contrast to the VFW’s usual mix of old beer, fried grease, and cigar smoke. She said she was in town for a three-month travel nursing contract, had run into his ex at the Safeway the day before, who’d offhandedly mentioned he still came to the fish fries every Friday like clockwork.
She teased him about the faded silver watch on his wrist, the one his ex had bought him for their 10th anniversary, and he flushed, fumbling to unbuckle it to tuck it out of sight. She reached across the table before he could, her warm, soft palm covering his, and he could feel the faint, familiar callus on her index finger, the same kind nurses get from holding syringes for 12-hour shifts. “Don’t be stupid,” she said, her thumb brushing the back of his hand for half a second before she pulled away. “It looks good on you. She was an idiot to leave you for a guy who collects vintage porcelain cats.”
Roman’s chest tightened. He’d spent 18 years telling himself he’d deserved the split, that he’d chosen the tower over her, that he was unfit for anything that didn’t involve scanning the horizon for smoke. Lila asked him about the tower, about the time he’d posted that photo of a black bear stealing his peanut butter sandwich off the tower railing, and he found himself talking longer than he had to anyone in years, telling her about the sunsets from the top, the way the stars were so bright out there you could see the Milky Way spill across the sky, no city lights to dim it. He didn’t even notice when the hall emptied out, the rain tapping harder against the windows, the bartender wiping down the last of the glasses for the night.
Lila groaned when she stepped outside, realizing she’d left her umbrella in her apartment. Roman shrugged off his thick wool fire lookout jacket, holding it over both their heads, his arm wrapping around her shoulders to pull her close so they wouldn’t get soaked. She pressed into his side as they walked the block to her car, her hip bumping his with every step, the rain soaking the cuffs of his flannel shirt where the jacket didn’t cover. When they reached her beat-up Subaru, she turned to face him, her hands resting on his chest, her face so close he could count the freckles across her nose.
“I’ve thought about you on and off for 20 years,” she said, her voice soft over the sound of the rain hitting the roof of the car. “Always thought my cousin was an idiot for letting you go.” She leaned in, and for half a second Roman hesitated, thinking about the unspoken rule that you don’t get involved with your ex-wife’s family, thinking about how the guys at the VFW would tease him if they found out, thinking about how he’d spent almost two decades deliberately keeping himself alone. Then he kissed her, slow, no rush, and he could taste the pink lemonade she’d been drinking with dinner, the faint tang of mint from her gum.
They made plans to meet for pancakes at the diner on Higgins Avenue the next morning, 8 a.m., the one that served huckleberry syrup as thick as molasses. He watched her pull out of the parking spot, waving through the rain-streaked window, and stood there for a minute, the cold rain seeping through his flannel, his chest lighter than it had been in 18 years. When he reached into his jacket pocket to pull out his truck keys, his fingers brushed a crumpled slip of paper, her cell number scrawled on the back of a VFW raffle ticket, a tiny heart doodled next to the last digit. He unlocked his truck, tossed the note on the passenger seat, and turned the key, the radio cutting on mid-John Prine song, warm through the speakers.
