Clay Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service wildfire crew lead, leans against a sun-warmed hay bale at the county’s annual harvest fair, spiced cider sweating through its paper cup in his hand. He’d let his old crew buddy Mike drag him out an hour prior, convinced he’d leave before the sun dipped below the Bitterroot Range, sick of the same sideways pitying looks he’s gotten since his wife Mara died three years prior. His work boots are caked in backcountry trail dust, the frayed cuff of his faded Carhartt jacket brushing dry hay, and he’s just about to mutter an excuse about feeding his aging hound dog when he hears a laugh that makes his chest tight.
It’s the same throaty, crack-at-the-high-note laugh Mara used to have, but when he looks over it’s not her. It’s Lila, Mara’s younger cousin, the last time he saw her she was 16, acne-spotted, begging Mara to borrow her vintage leather jacket for a Nirvana cover show 45 minutes away in Missoula. Now she’s 42, a thin silver streak slicing through her auburn half-up braid, flannel unbuttoned at the collar to show a thin silver chain with a dog tag charm, holding a corn dog slathered in yellow mustard. She spots him before he can look away, grinning, and crosses the 10 feet between them before he can think to duck behind the hay bale.
She stands close enough he can smell jasmine hand lotion and fried dough sugar on her fingers, tapping the toe of her scuffed cowboy boot against his. “Clay Bennett. You still hide from crowds like you’re avoiding a hot spot that might flare up on you?” Her voice is lower than he remembers, rougher, like she spends half her day yelling at skittish, uncooperative dogs. He blinks, the back of his neck heating up, half confused, half embarrassed that he’s staring at the smattering of freckles across her nose instead of meeting her eyes. He mumbles a greeting, and she laughs again, leaning in a little when the bluegrass band down the row cranks up their set, her shoulder brushing his through his flannel shirt.
She tells him she moved back to town two weeks prior, bought the old vet clinic on Main Street, fixed the leaky roof herself after the contractor bailed on her. He finds himself telling her about the three-mile backcountry trail he’s been clearing by himself up on the west side of the mountain, something he hasn’t mentioned to anyone but his hound. She nods like she gets it, like she knows what it’s like to do quiet work that only matters to you, and when his empty cider cup slips in his sweaty hand she catches it, her fingers brushing his for half a second, leaving a tingle that travels all the way up his arm. He almost pulls away, almost chides himself for noticing, for feeling anything that isn’t sharp, familiar grief, for looking at his dead wife’s cousin like she’s something other than family.
When she asks if he wants to grab a beer at the Watering Hole down the street, he almost says no. Almost makes up an excuse about the hound waiting, about the split-rail fence he needs to fix before the first snow hits. But she’s tilting her head at him, eyes glinting, and he finds himself saying yes before he can overthink it. The bar is dim, strung with faded Christmas lights that haven’t been taken down since last December, a Johnny Cash deep cut playing low on the jukebox, and they slide into a scuffed vinyl booth in the back, far away from the handful of regulars yelling at the football game at the bar. Their knees brush under the table the second they sit down, and neither of them moves. She passes him the bowl of salted peanuts, her hand brushing the pale scar on his wrist from the 2018 Lolo Peak fire, and he flinches before he can stop himself.
“I know this is weird,” she says, leaning in so he can hear her over the game commentary, her breath warm against his ear. “I know you’re probably thinking this is wrong, that it’s some kind of betrayal.” He opens his mouth to deny it, but she holds up a hand, stopping him. “Mara cheated on you twice, you know. Once in 2014, when you were on that three-month fire assignment in California, once the year before she got sick. I never told you, because she begged me not to. But you deserve to know you weren’t the one who wasn’t enough.” The words hit him like a punch to the gut, half sharp anger, half quiet relief, the heavy weight he’s carried for three years feeling a little lighter all at once.
He sits quiet for a minute, staring at the peeling label on his beer bottle, and when he looks up she’s watching him, no pity in her eyes, just something soft and steady. “I had a crush on you when I was 16,” she says, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, picking a peanut out of the bowl and popping it in her mouth. “Used to beg Mara to bring you to family dinners just so I could sit across the table from you. I didn’t move back here for the clinic, not really.” He laces his fingers through hers across the table before he can think better of it, the rough calluses on her knuckles from holding down squirming dogs scraping soft against his palm, the voice in his head screaming that this is wrong, that he’s a terrible person, fading to a quiet, easy hum.
They finish their beers as the bar empties out, her knee still pressed firm to his, trading stories about the trail, about the three-legged rescue pit bull she brought with her from Portland, about the way Mara used to steal his thick wool socks and leave them balled up all over the house. He walks her to her beat-up 1998 Ford Ranger pickup when they leave, the air cold enough to see his breath, and he slips his Carhartt jacket over her shoulders when she shivers. She leans up before he can say goodnight, kissing him soft, tasting like IPA and peppermint lip balm, and he doesn’t pull away. He tells her he’ll pick her up at 8 the next morning to show her the trail, and she grins, tucking her hands into the jacket pockets, saying she’ll bring the dark roast he likes, extra cream no sugar.
He stands in the gravel parking lot watching her taillights fade down the dark two-lane road, the cold air biting at his cheeks, and when he turns to walk to his own truck he catches a whiff of jasmine on his shirt, and tucks his hands into his jeans pockets, already looking forward to the morning.
