Rico Marquez, 53, leans against a splintered wooden post at the Flagstaff fall fire department fundraiser, calloused fingers wrapped around a cold hazy IPA. He’s still dusted with pine sawdust from the shop, came straight from putting the final trim on a 1972 Volkswagen Westfalia he donated to the silent auction, which just sold for $2,100. His flannel sleeves are rolled to the elbows, showing off the pale, raised circular saw scar snaking up his left forearm, and his work boots are caked with red dirt from the forest road leading to his workshop. He’s avoided most small talk all night, stubborn as ever about not letting people fuss over him for the donation—his least favorite thing is being the center of unasked-for attention, a flaw he’s carried since he was a teen, the reason he preferred working alone on campers instead of taking a promotion at the auto shop he quit a decade back. He’s been single eight years, ever since his ex-wife left him for a travel blogger who spent half the year in Bali, and he’s gotten used to the quiet, the rhythm of sanding and wiring and painting that fills most of his days.
He’s about to head back to the food truck for another brisket taco when he spots her, leaning against the split rail fence bordering the beer garden, laughing so hard her shoulders shake at a dumb joke the local fire chief just told. Lila. His ex-wife’s younger cousin, the one who used to crash at their house for two weeks every summer when she was a wildlife biology undergrad, always stealing his pickles off his plate and pestering him to teach her how to change the oil in her beat up Honda Civic. He hasn’t seen her in seven years, not since the messy divorce, and he freezes mid-sip, the bitter hop taste sitting heavy on his tongue. She’s wearing faded Carhartt overalls, no shirt underneath, just a thin silver wolf pendant hanging between her sun-freckled collarbones, and her ash blonde hair is pulled back in a braid, a few loose strands sticking to her sweat-glistened forehead. She’s 38 now, no longer the gawky 19 year old who used to burn his toast on purpose, and he can’t look away.
He snorts, shifting his weight so his arm is still angled toward her, not pulling away. “Got distracted by a woodpecker tapping on the shop window. Dumbest accident of my life.” He doesn’t add that he’d been thinking about her that day, randomly, wondering if she was still living in Oregon studying spotted owls, if she still hated coffee but drank it anyway to stay up during field work. He feels a twist of guilt in his gut—she’s his ex’s family, everyone in this small town knows that, if anyone sees them talking for too long the gossip will spread faster than the last wildfire that swept through the Coconino National Forest. But he can’t bring himself to walk away.
She teases him about still wearing the same scuffed work boots he had when she was 20, he teases her back about still stealing pickles, and she grins, reaching right over his arm to grab a dill off his paper plate, taking a big bite so the brine dribbles down her chin. He almost reaches to wipe it off with his thumb before he catches himself, his hand hovering in the air for half a second before he shoves it in his flannel pocket. She tells him she took a permanent position with the forest service here, studying Mexican spotted owl populations, she moved into a small cabin off Forest Road 12 two weeks ago. She asks about his restoration projects, listens intently when he rambles about the 1968 Airstream he’s rebuilding for a client from Phoenix, doesn’t cut him off or glaze over like most people do when he talks about his work. For the first time in years, he doesn’t feel like the guy who got left, the quiet camper guy who lives alone in the woods. He feels seen.
The sun dips below the San Francisco Peaks as they talk, and the air turns sharp with fall chill, making Lila shiver. “Forgot my jacket in my truck,” she says, nodding toward the dark parking lot at the edge of the beer garden. “Wanna walk with me? The band’s about to play a set of terrible 90s country, I’d rather avoid it if I can.”
He nods, and they walk side by side, the orange glow of the string lights painting stripes across their shoulders, the sound of the crowd fading behind them. She stops next to a beat up 4Runner covered in wildlife field stickers, leaning against the driver’s side door, and looks up at him, her eyes bright in the faint light. “I had a crush on you when I was 19,” she says, no preamble, no hesitation. “Never said anything because you were married. But you’re not anymore. And I don’t care what anyone in this town thinks.”
The words hang in the cold air for a long second, and he feels the last of his resistance crumble. He’s spent eight years telling himself he doesn’t need anyone, that being alone is easier than dealing with the mess of other people, the judgment, the risk of getting hurt again. But none of that matters right now, not when she’s looking at him like that, like he’s the only person in the whole parking lot. He steps closer, his calloused fingers brushing her cheek, and she tilts her head into his touch, her skin warm even through the chill. “I thought about you too,” he says, quiet enough only she can hear. “More than I should have.”
She pulls her keys out of her overalls pocket, dangles them in front of him, the metal glinting in the light from the distant string lights. “My cabin’s ten minutes from here. No neighbors for three miles. No one will see us.”
He hesitates for half a second, the last flicker of guilt about the town gossip, about his ex, flitting through his head before he reaches out and takes the keys, his fingers wrapping around hers. He slides into the driver’s seat, and she rests her hand on his thigh the whole ride, her palm warm through the worn denim of his jeans, the windows rolled down so the sharp pine smell of the forest fills the cab. They don’t talk much, just listen to the wind rustling the ponderosa pines as he drives down the dark dirt road.
They pull up to the small, wood-sided cabin ten minutes later, and a great horned owl hoots low from the top of a pine at the edge of the driveway, and he turns off the truck, his hand still covering hers on his thigh.
