Cole Hayward, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service hotshot crew lead, slumps on a scuffed vinyl bar stool at the Pine Ridge Tavern, scotch neat sweating in front of him. His work jeans still have a crust of pine sap on the left cuff, leftover from clearing dead fir off his property that morning, and the scar slicing across his left forearm throbs a little, a souvenir from the 2020 Echo Mountain fire. He hasn’t been out to a community event since his wife, Elaine, died seven years prior, only showed up tonight because the proceeds go to families displaced by the small wildfire that ripped through the west end of town two weeks prior. The air smells like fried pretzel salt and cheap draft beer, the neon Pabst sign above the bar hums so loud he can feel it in his molars, and the jukebox spits out a slow Alan Jackson track he and Elaine used to dance to in their kitchen after too many margaritas.
He’s halfway through his second drink when she slides onto the stool two spots down, close enough that the hem of her flannel shirt brushes his elbow. Clara Bennett, 54, runs the town’s animal rescue, and he hasn’t talked to her longer than ten seconds at a family funeral in almost a decade. She orders a lime seltzer, no ice, and when she reaches across the bar to grab it from the bartender, her cold, damp forearm brushes his, sending a jolt up his spine he hasn’t felt since he was 20 years old. She smells like lavender laundry detergent and faint dog shampoo, her dark hair has a streak of gray right at the temple, and when she turns to look at him, her brown eyes crinkle at the corners the exact same way Elaine’s used to.
He tenses immediately, old guilt coiling in his gut. Clara is Elaine’s baby cousin, the kid who used to tag along on their camping trips in the 90s, beg him to teach her to fish, sneak sips of Elaine’s beer when they weren’t looking. He’s always thought of her as off-limits, not just out of respect for Elaine, but because he’d convinced himself any kind of romantic connection after his wife died was a betrayal, a waste of the 32 years they’d had together. He goes to shift further down the bar, but she nods at the pine sap on his jeans and smirks, and he freezes.
“I spent three hours yesterday getting that exact same stain off a golden retriever that ran off into the woods after a bear,” she says, leaning in a little so he can hear her over the crowd. Her knee brushes his under the bar, denim on denim, and he doesn’t move away. She wears a silver ring shaped like a paw print on her middle finger, her nails are short and chipped, and when she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, he notices a tiny scar on her jaw from when she fell off his ATV on that 1998 camping trip.
They talk for an hour, first about the fire, the 12 dogs she’d pulled from evacuated homes, the 100 hours he’d put in volunteering on the fire line even though he’s retired. Then she brings up old trips, the time he forgot the marshmallows on their anniversary camping trip and made Elaine s’mores out of stale graham crackers and leftover chocolate from his pack. She says Elaine used to call her after those trips, gush about how stubborn Cole was, how much she loved that he’d walk three miles in the rain just to get her a packet of her favorite strawberry Pop-Tarts. The guilt fades a little, replaced by a warm buzz he can’t blame on the scotch.
When a group of rowdy volunteer firefighters squeeze past their stools, Clara shifts even closer, her shoulder pressed tight to his, and he can feel the heat of her through his shirt. She looks up at him, holds eye contact for three full beats, and he doesn’t look away. He’s been so wrapped up in his own grief for so long he forgot what it felt like to be seen as something other than Elaine’s widower, the old hotshot with the scarred arm. She doesn’t treat him like he’s broken, doesn’t pat his arm and tell him she’s sorry for his loss, just teases him about his terrible taste in scotch and asks if he wants to step outside to get away from the noise.
The air outside is crisp, mid-50s, and he slips his old forest service wool flannel off his shoulders and hands it to her without thinking. She wraps it around her, the sleeves too long, and leans against the brick wall of the tavern next to him, their boots touching. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 19,” she says, quiet, like she’s admitting something she’s been holding in for years. “I never said anything because you were so happy with her. She’d kill me if she knew I waited this long to tell you.”
He feels his chest go tight, the last of the guilt melting away. He’d spent seven years convinced Elaine would want him to be miserable, to hold onto her memory like a weight, but he knows she’s right. Elaine would have laughed at how stupid he’s been, would have set him up with Clara six years ago if she’d had the chance. He leans in, cups her jaw with his calloused hand, and kisses her, slow at first, then deeper when she tangles her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. He can taste the lime from her seltzer, the mint from the gum she’s chewing, and the cold tip of her nose brushes his cheek.
When they pull away, she’s grinning, and he realizes he’s smiling too, the first real smile he’s had in years. She laces her fingers through his, her hand smaller than his, calloused from trimming dog nails and hauling bales of hay for the rescue horses, and he doesn’t let go. They walk down the dark street to the 24-hour diner three blocks over, where they serve pancakes with huckleberry syrup that Elaine used to rave about, and he holds the door open for her, still wearing his flannel. The diner bell jingles when they step inside, and the waitress, a woman he’s known since high school, winks at him from behind the counter.
