Arlo Mendez, 62, retired U.S. Forest Service fire crew supervisor, had spent the first 45 minutes of the county fire department barbecue avoiding the well-meaning widows and distant cousins who’d been trying to set him up on blind dates for six years straight. He leaned against a splintered pine picnic table at the edge of the field, work boots planted in a layer of sawdust spread to soak up the afternoon rain runoff, nursing a cold IPA that sweated through the paper koozie in his calloused left hand. The scar running from his wrist to his elbow, a souvenir of the 2017 Gorge fire, glowed pink in the late July sun. The air reeked of smoked brisket, citronella candles, and coconut sunscreen, the din of cornhole trash talk and kids’ laughter bouncing off the oak trees lining the property.
He shifted his weight to reach for the bag of salt and vinegar chips on the table behind him, elbow catching something soft, half his beer sloshing over the rim of the can onto a cream linen shirt. He swore under his breath, spinning around, ready to apologize to whoever he’d just doused. The woman in front of him laughed, a low, warm sound, swiping at the damp spot on her chest with a crumpled napkin. She was 58, maybe, streaks of silver in her dark brown hair pulled back in a loose braid, a smudge of barbecue sauce on the left edge of her jaw, round wire-rimmed glasses slipping down her nose. No scowl, no huff, just amusement crinkling the corners of her hazel eyes.
He stammered out an apology, offered to buy her a new drink, offered to pay for the shirt, offered to do just about anything to make up for being a clumsy oaf. She told him the shirt was a thrifted find she’d paid $3 for, so he could relax, and she’d take a strawberry lemonade if he was buying. He walked to the drink tent two steps behind her, noticing the scuffed white hiking boots on her feet, the dog-eared trail map peeking out of the back pocket of her frayed denim cutoffs. She told him her name was Lila, she’d moved to town three months prior to run the small public library off Main Street, left a 20-year marriage in Portland when she realized she’d rather spend her weekends hiking than going to boring dinner parties with her ex-husband’s law firm coworkers.
They ended up back at his picnic table, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed every time one of them shifted. She asked about the scar on his arm, listened without interrupting when he told her about the 2017 fire, about losing two members of his crew that season, about retiring two years later when his wife Elaine got sick. He didn’t usually talk about Elaine to strangers, but something about the way she held his eye, no pity, no awkward pauses waiting for him to change the subject, made it easy. When he mentioned the hidden waterfall two miles up the unmarked back section of Trail 17, she leaned in so close he could smell pine and peppermint on her breath, her knee bumping his, and said she’d been trying to find that spot for weeks, kept getting turned around on the unblazed paths.
The old familiar guilt flared in his chest then, sharp and heavy, the same feeling that had made him turn down every date offer for the last eight years. He told himself he was being ridiculous, that he was too old for this, that Elaine would think he was an idiot for even considering spending time alone with another woman. He opened his mouth to make an excuse, to say he was busy, that he didn’t take strangers on backcountry trails, when she reached up, her fingers brushing the side of his neck as she plucked a dry pine needle off the collar of his faded forest service flannel. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, the small, warm press of her skin against his sending a jolt down his spine he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager.
He realized the disgust he’d been carrying around for years at the thought of dating wasn’t loyalty to Elaine, it was fear. Fear of being vulnerable again, fear of losing someone else, fear of what the small town gossips would say when they saw him with someone new. He glanced across the field, saw three of his old crew members pretending not to watch them, grinning and giving him subtle thumbs up when he caught their eye. He looked back at Lila, who was still holding the pine needle between her thumb and forefinger, smiling like she knew exactly what was going through his head.
He pulled the crumpled hand-drawn trail map he kept in his flannel pocket out, the edges frayed from years of use, and scribbled his cell number on the back in blue ballpoint. Told her to meet him at the Trail 17 parking lot at 7 a.m. Saturday, beat the midday heat, bring good hiking shoes, he’d bring the water and the peanut butter granola bars. She took the map, folded it carefully, tucked it into the pocket of her cutoffs, said she’d bring cold brew, black, just how he liked it, she’d seen the sticker on his dented stainless steel thermos on the table. She waved when she walked to her beat up Subaru a few minutes later, blowing him a quick, playful kiss when she turned to unlock the door.
He stood there for ten minutes after she drove away, sipping his now warm beer, the spot where her fingers had brushed his neck still tingling. One of his old crew members clapped him on the back, teased him about finally getting his head out of his ass, and he just laughed, not even bothering to deny it. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checked for a text he didn’t expect to get for another three days, then slipped it back, turning to watch the sun dip pink below the oak tree line.
