He turned to dodge a fourth, shoulder bumping hard into someone holding a plastic cup of pale pink rosé. Half the cup sloshed over the rim, soaking through the front of his shirt right above the thick, silvery scar snaking across his left forearm, the one he’d earned dragging two teen hikers out of the 2017 Boise National Forest blaze. He started to cuss, then bit his tongue when he looked down. It was Lila Marlow, 36, the new county public health officer who’d moved to town from Portland six months prior, the one half the older men in the county had been gossiping about over coffee at the diner, the one half the older women had been side-eyeing for “dressing too casual” for town hall meetings. She yelped, grabbing a crumpled napkin from her jeans pocket and dabbing at the wet spot on his shirt before he could protest, her cool, soft fingers brushing the edge of his scar. He flinched, not from pain, but from the shock of a woman’s deliberate, gentle touch, something he hadn’t felt since his wife left him 12 years prior, no explanation, just a note on the kitchen counter and a packed U-Haul in the driveway.
He told her it was fine, he’d worn worse, but she insisted on buying him another beer to make up for it, and he found himself agreeing before he could think better of it. He knew the town’s unwritten rule, the one everyone had been chattering about for the past month, ever since the city council passed that stupid “community decency guideline” discouraging public displays of affection between people with a 20-year or more age gap, framed as a “protection for young people” that everyone knew was just an excuse to police anyone who didn’t fit the town’s narrow idea of normal. He was disgusted with himself for even wanting to talk to her, for noticing the tiny gap between her two front teeth when she grinned, for the way his chest tightened when she leaned against the fence next to him, close enough that their elbows brushed every time she lifted her cup. She asked about the scar, and he told her the story of the 2017 fire, the way the smoke had been so thick he couldn’t see his own boots, the way the two hikers had been so scared they could barely stand, and she listened, didn’t interrupt, didn’t make that pitying face most people made when he talked about his old job. She asked follow-up questions, about the fire retardant they used, about how you learned to navigate a blaze when you couldn’t see three feet in front of you, and he found himself rambling, telling her stories he hadn’t told anyone, not even his own adult kids.
He could smell lavender perfume on her, mixed with the citrus of her rosé and the faint smell of pine sap on her jeans, like she’d been hiking earlier that day. The band shifted to a slower Merle Haggard track, and she shifted closer, her shoulder pressing against his bicep, holding eye contact a full two beats longer than was polite for casual small talk. That familiar, stupid flutter he’d thought he’d outgrown decades prior buzzed in his chest, the same hot, awkward flush he’d gotten at 17 when he’d tripped over his own feet trying to ask the head cheerleader to prom. He wanted to leave, to run back to his quiet cabin in the woods, to hide from the stares he knew were coming, but he couldn’t make himself move.
The mayor, Jerry, walked by then, red-faced from too many beers, holding a plate loaded with three brats. He stopped, raised an eyebrow, nodded pointedly at the six inches of space between their hips, the way Lila was leaning into his side. “Nice to see you two getting along,” he said, voice thick with unsubtle judgment. “Just remember that new community guideline, yeah? Don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.” Clay tensed, already pulling his arm away, already forming an excuse to leave, already apologizing for something he hadn’t even done. Lila reached down, laced her fingers through his, squeezed hard, the callus on her middle finger from years of scribbling patient notes rubbing against the rough, split skin of his knuckle. “We’re just discussing fire safety, Jerry,” she said, voice sharp, no smile. “You got a problem with making sure this town doesn’t burn to the ground next summer?” Jerry huffed, mumbled something about “respecting community standards,” and walked away.
Clay didn’t pull his hand away. He stood there, holding her hand, the noise of the beer garden fading into a low hum, the smell of brats and beer fading behind the lavender of her perfume. She tilted her head up at him, grinning that gap-toothed grin, and asked if he wanted to get out of there, go down to the river where it was quiet, no one to stare, no one to make stupid comments about arbitrary rules. He nodded, no words coming out of his mouth, and they walked out of the beer garden together, still holding hands, gravel crunching under their matching steel-toe work boots, the sound of the river rushing getting louder with every step. A firefly landed on the back of her hand, glowing faint gold in the growing dark, and she laughed, quiet and warm, and didn’t shake it off.
