Clay Bennett, 58, retired Yellowstone park ranger with a scar slicing through his left eyebrow from a 2009 bison encounter, leaned against the split-rail fence lining his Boise neighborhood’s annual summer block party, condensation from his hazy IPA dripping down his wrist and pooling in the frayed cuff of his work jeans. The air smelled like hickory-smoked brisket, burnt sugar from the cotton candy stand, and cut grass still damp from the evening sprinklers. Kids screamed as they bounced off the walls of the inflatable obstacle course, and a cover band down the street fumbled through a half-decent rendition of “Folsom Prison Blues.” He’d showed up only because his next-door neighbor badgered him into bringing a jar of his pickled okra for the potluck, and he’d planned to leave within 45 minutes, go home to his hound dog Mabel and the latest John Grisham paperback he’d been working through for two weeks.
He spotted her first when she walked past the taco truck, holding a paper plate stacked high with elote, orange cheese dust smudged on the point of her chin, cutoff denim shorts riding low on her hips, a faded 1994 Johnny Cash tour tee cropped just enough to show a sliver of sun-darkened skin above the waistband of her shorts. Mara Carter, 54, traveling ER nurse, ex-wife of his former park service partner Jax, and his new next-door neighbor of two months. He’d only waved at her through the fence before, had made a point to avoid extended conversation, clinging to the 30-year-old bro code rule he’d learned as a 22-year-old rookie: you don’t mess with your partner’s ex, no matter how badly the partner messed up. Jax had left Mara and their two young kids for a 22-year-old raft guide back in 2011, had cut off contact with all his old park service crew within a year, and Clay had never so much as sent Mara a birthday card, even when his late wife Linda had begged him to stop being so stubborn.
She caught him staring, grinned, and walked over, stopping close enough that he could smell the coconut sunscreen she wore and the lime from the margarita she was sipping through a plastic straw. “You’re the one who grows those purple coneflowers by the fence, right?” she said, nodding toward his front yard, and before he could answer, she brushed a stray pine needle off the shoulder of his cotton button-down, her knuckles grazing the skin of his neck for half a second. He jolted like he’d touched a hot camp stove, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He hadn’t been touched by anyone who wasn’t Mabel or the 72-year-old vet who ran the food bank where he volunteered in close to seven years. He fumbled for a response, mumbled something about native pollinators, and took a too-big sip of his beer, half of it dribbling down his chin. She laughed, a low, rough sound that made his chest feel tight, and handed him a crumpled napkin from her pocket, their fingers brushing when he took it.
They talked for 20 minutes, her leaning against the fence post next to him, shifting closer every few seconds until their elbows were touching, him inching back half the time, fighting the stupid, unshakable guilt that coiled in his gut every time he looked at her mouth, at the little crinkles around her eyes when she laughed. She told him she’d been working 12-hour shifts at the local VA, that she’d moved to Boise to be closer to her oldest kid who’d just had a baby, that she’d been sneaking clippings of his coneflowers for her kitchen windowsill for weeks. He told her about the time he’d rescued a group of teen hikers from a grizzly den back in 2011, about Mabel’s obsession with stealing socks off the laundry line, about how Linda had loved Johnny Cash, used to play his records on Sunday mornings while she made pancakes. He wanted to leave, wanted to run back to his quiet house and forget how good her voice sounded, how warm her elbow was pressed against his, but he couldn’t make his feet move.
A six-year-old kid chasing a golden retriever bolted between them, slamming into Mara’s shoulder, and she stumbled forward, right into his chest. He caught her by the waist on instinct, his hands splayed across the small of her back, her free hand landing flat on his chest, right over his heart. They froze there for three full beats, no one moving, the noise of the block party fading into background static. She tilted her head up, and he could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes lit up by the string lights strung above the street, the smudge of cheese still on her chin. The guilt was still there, sharp and bright, but it was smaller now, overshadowed by the fact that he could feel her heartbeat through her shirt, fast as a hummingbird’s, that she wasn’t pulling away.
“Jax texted me last month,” she said, soft enough only he could hear, when he still didn’t let go. “Said he saw your Facebook post about the block party, told me I should ask you out. Said you were always the good one, that you deserved to stop being alone.” Clay blinked, the last of his stupid, outdated loyalty crumbling. He’d spent seven years convinced he didn’t get to be happy again, that any connection he tried to build would be a betrayal of Linda, of the bro code he’d lived by his whole adult life, and all that time, the last person he thought would give him permission was the one person he’d been avoiding.
