Javi Mendez, 59, spent 22 years as a forest fire smokejumper before launching his small wildfire risk consulting firm in Bend, Oregon, and he’d avoided every neighborhood fundraiser for the past decade until his old jump crew practically dragged him to the beer garden event that crisp late August evening. He showed up in the same frayed Carhartt jacket he’d worn for 14 years, a thin scar slicing across his left eyebrow from a 2018 Rogue River blaze, calluses so thick on his palms he could grip a red-hot shovel handle for 10 minutes without flinching. He grabbed a hazy IPA from the tent, planned to say hi to the guys, slip out before anyone tried to make small talk, and head back to his quiet, too-empty house on the edge of the Deschutes National Forest.
He’d almost made it to the exit when he spotted the table stacked with native wildflower seed packets, and his feet stopped moving before his brain caught up. His late wife, Lila, had planted purple lupine all along their fence line before she died of ovarian cancer 12 years prior, and most of it had burned in the 2020 Beachie Creek fire he’d spent three straight weeks fighting, too grief-stricken to care if a falling tree took him out with it. He was staring at the lupine packets when a woman leaned in next to him, her soft flannel sleeve brushing his bicep when she reached for a packet of the same purple seeds. “Most people are grabbing the fireweed first,” she said, her voice warm, like she spent all day talking to people who needed to hear something soft. She smelled like pine resin and dried lavender, and Javi flinched before he could stop himself; he hadn’t let anyone stand that close to him on purpose in years.
She pulled back a little, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and he recognized her immediately: Mara Carter, who ran the native plant nursery that opened up downtown six months prior, who’d called him out at a city council meeting three months earlier for yelling at a developer who wanted to plant 40 flammable juniper trees outside a new apartment complex. “Sorry,” he mumbled, shifting his weight on the gravel, his beer sweating cold through the paper cup in his hand. “Not used to people being in my space.” She laughed, the sound cutting over the steel guitar warming up on the small stage, and leaned back in, not quite touching him this time, close enough he could see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, the thick streak of silver in the dark braid slung over her shoulder. “I know who you are,” she said. “I’ve read all your risk assessments. Lost my house in Beachie Creek, too. That’s why I started the nursery, to sell people fire-resistant plants instead of the garbage landscaping companies push.”
They talked for 40 minutes straight, leaning against the edge of the seed table, the crowd swirling around them, Javi forgetting he’d planned to leave early. She told him about replanting her own small yard with native species, about the stray barn cat that lived in her nursery greenhouse, about how she’d seen him at the farmers market every Saturday buying blackberries and always looked like he was trying to vanish into the crowd. He told her about Lila’s lupine, about jumping out of planes into burning forests, about how he’d not let anyone see him cry after Beachie Creek until he was alone in his truck driving home, ash still caked in his hair. The band struck up a slow cover of a 90s country song, and a handful of couples drifted into the open space in front of the stage to dance. Mara held out her hand, palm up, calluses matching his from hauling potted plants and digging holes in hard volcanic soil. “C’mon,” she said. “I bet you’re a terrible dancer. I am too.”
Javi hesitated, his chest tight, because the last time he’d danced was at Lila’s funeral reception, her sister dragging him into a circle, and he’d hated every second of it. But he put his hand in hers anyway. She pulled him into the dance area, her other hand resting light on his shoulder, his settling tentative on her waist, and they swayed off-beat, stepping on each other’s work boots twice, laughing so hard he snort-laughed, something he hadn’t done since he was in his 30s. She leaned in closer when the song hit the chorus, her mouth next to his ear, and he could feel the warmth of her breath on his neck. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for months,” she said. “Thought you were too grumpy to say more than two words to anyone.” He huffed a laugh, pulling back just enough to look at her, and for the first time in 12 years, he didn’t feel the weight of grief pressing down on his chest so hard he could barely breathe. “I’m mostly grumpy,” he said. “But I’m glad I talked to you.”
The song ended, and they didn’t move apart for three full beats, the crowd cheering around them for the band. Mara tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and nodded at the lupine seed packet he’d been clutching the whole time. “I’ve got a whole flat of lupine starts at the nursery,” she said. “I can drop them off at your place tomorrow, if you want help planting them. No charge. For Lila.” Javi nodded, fumbling in his pocket for a pen, scribbling his address on the back of a crumpled beer coaster, handing it to her. He walked her to her beat-up pickup truck when the event wrapped up, the air cool enough he could see his breath when he exhaled, and she leaned up and pressed a soft, quick kiss to his scarred cheek before she climbed behind the wheel. He stood in the gravel parking lot long after her taillights vanished around the corner, holding the crinkled lupine seed packet in one hand, the spot on his cheek still warm, and he didn’t feel the urge to rush home to his empty house.
