Rafe Mendez, 53, retired smokejumper turned wildfire mitigation consultant, leans against the sticky high-top at Boise’s newest beer garden, condensation from his hazy IPA dripping down to the silver, jagged scar on his left forearm. He’d sworn he’d never step foot in a place this crowded—his biggest flaw is that he’s held a grudge against casual social gatherings ever since his wife left him eight years prior, calling him “too stubborn to ever let anyone get close enough to matter.” He’d only stopped by because the 92-degree July heat had turned his truck’s cab into an oven, and he was still simmering from the city council vote that killed his proposed fire break project for the west side low-income neighborhood earlier that afternoon.
He’s halfway through his second pint when a woman drops her tote on the empty stool next to him, her bare, sun-warmed arm brushing his as she reaches for a paper napkin from the dispenser between them. He recognizes her instantly: Lena, the wife of the councilman who’d led the vote against his project, the woman he’d deliberately avoided for three months even when she waved at him from across their shared street. The scent of jasmine lotion and fresh cut grass hits him first, followed by the bright fizz of the lime seltzer she orders from the passing server. He tenses, ready to grab his wallet and leave, when she turns to him, holds eye contact a beat longer than polite, and smirks.
“I saw you yell at my husband at the meeting today,” she says, leaning in so he can hear her over the bluegrass trio plucking away in the corner. Her knee brushes his under the table, soft denim on worn canvas work pants, and he doesn’t shift away. “You were right. He’s an idiot, and the developers slipping him campaign checks are the only reason he voted no.”
Rafe blinks, taken off guard. He’d spent the past two weeks assuming every person connected to that council was against him, had even ignored the handwritten note she’d left in his mailbox last week asking if he could recommend a native shrub that didn’t need regular watering. He’d tossed it straight in the trash, too bitter to bother responding. He studies her: chestnut hair streaked with thin strands of gray pulled back in a loose braid, fingernails painted burnt sienna, a smudge of charcoal on the side of her jaw—she’d told him once, when they’d exchanged a grand total of ten words at the mailbox six months prior, that she’s a freelance botanical illustrator.
She admits she filed for divorce two days prior, has been crashing on her sister’s couch three blocks over, had walked to the beer garden to get away from the sound of her sister’s toddler screaming over Blue’s Clues reruns. She leans in closer when she talks, her shoulder pressed to his bicep, and laughs when he tells her about the time he’d gotten stuck in a ponderosa pine for three hours during a 2019 blaze outside Twin Falls, his jump line tangled around a thick, resin-coated branch. He finds himself laughing too, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months. He’s torn, half-disgusted at the idea of even talking to the ex-wife of the man who just screwed over a hundred working-class families, half-hungry for the warm weight of her against his side, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles, the way she keeps brushing her hand against his wrist like she’s testing to see if he’ll pull away.
By the time the bluegrass trio packs up their instruments, the sun has dipped below the foothills, and the air smells like dry pine and the smoked brisket coming from the food truck by the entrance. She touches the scar on his forearm, her fingers soft and cool against his sun-warmed skin, and asks him how he got it. He tells her about the 2018 McCall fire, the way a falling charred branch had clipped him mid-jump, how he’d still managed to dig a three-foot fire line for six hours before he let anyone patch him up. She doesn’t flinch at the gory details, just nods, like she gets the urge to keep pushing even when your body is screaming at you to stop.
He asks her if she wants to get al pastor tacos at the 24/7 spot down the street, says he knows the owner, who makes his own salsa roja that’s hot enough to clear out your sinuses for a week. She grins, slings her canvas tote over her shoulder, and stands up, her hand brushing his as she adjusts the hem of her jeans. He doesn’t hesitate to lace his calloused, scarred fingers through hers when they step out into the warm, still summer air, the distant glow of a small controlled burn on the foothills painting the sky pale, hazy orange.
