Rafe Mendez, 53, retired smokejumper turned U.S. Forest Service trail maintenance lead, slouched in a dented folding metal chair at the town’s annual fire department beer garden fundraiser, half-wishing he’d lied to his niece about being free that night. He owed the kid, though—she’d spent three weekends last winter helping him pull the rusted transmission out of his 1998 F-150, no complaining, even when her nails got caked in gear oil. The air reeked of charred bratwurst, pine, and cold IPA, the mayor’s off-key rendition of “Friends in Low Places” blaring over crackling portable speakers. Rafe wore a faded Forest Service hoodie, work boots still dusted with trail dirt, calloused hands wrapped around a 16 ounce can of beer, determined to avoid small talk until the raffle finished and he could sneak out.
All the other chairs around his table filled up fast, and then the only empty spot was the one to his left. He glanced up when he caught a whiff of lavender and cedar, and recognized Clara Hale, the new town librarian who’d moved to the valley six months prior. He’d dropped off a stack of out-of-print wildfire safety pamphlets at the library two months earlier, but had only mumbled a greeting before hurrying out, spooked by how easy it had been to hold eye contact with her for three whole seconds. She slid into the seat beside him, her shoulder brushing his bicep when she set her lemon seltzer down on the wobbly plastic table. “Tell me you brought earplugs,” she said, nodding at the stage where the mayor was now attempting a Garth Brooks growl. Rafe snorted before he could stop himself. “Forgot ’em. Guess I’ll just have to drink enough that it sounds good.”
They fell into conversation easier than he’d talked to anyone in years. Clara mentioned she’d been trying to hike the upper ridge trails on her days off, but kept getting turned around by the faded blazes some lazy volunteer had repainted wrong back in 2019. Rafe laughed, admitted he was the guy who’d spent three weeks last spring redoing all those blazes, and that half the town still got lost because they were used to the old, wrong markers. She leaned in when he explained the difference between the oak-leaf blazes for horse trails and the regular white dashes for foot traffic, her knee brushing his under the table, warm even through his thick work pants. When he told her about the time he’d stumbled on a family of black bears napping in a patch of huckleberries on the ridge, she laughed so hard she reached out and touched his forearm, her fingers calloused from reshelving hardcovers, warm against his sun-warmed skin. Rafe tensed for half a second, then didn’t pull away. He’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone touch him like that, casual, no agenda, no expectation. He knew the town’s unspoken rule about Clara, too—everyone said she was still grieving her late husband, a high school biology teacher who’d died of a heart attack two years before she moved, that she wasn’t “available” no matter how many single guys in town tried to ask her out. Part of him felt stupid for even enjoying the conversation, like he was breaking some unwritten code, but the bigger part didn’t care, not when she kept looking at him like he was saying something interesting, not like he was just the grumpy trail guy who never talked to anyone.
The emcee cut into the conversation to announce the raffle grand prize: a three-day guided backcountry hike for two, led by the trail maintenance crew, all meals and camping gear included. Rafe’s niece walked over, grinning, and handed him his ticket stub. “Bought it for you with the change from the bratwurst you bought me,” she said, before darting off to sell more tickets. Rafe rolled his eyes, figured he’d win a free T-shirt or a gift card to the hardware store, nothing exciting. Then the emcee called his number.
He froze, beer halfway to his mouth. The table around him whooped, people he’d known for 20 years clapping him on the back. Clara turned to him, grinning so wide the corners of her hazel eyes crinkled, and nudged his shoulder with hers. “You gonna ask me to come, or are you gonna drag that 22-year-old kid you work with who spends all his off time posting TikTok videos of himself doing skate tricks in the grocery store parking lot?” Rafe stared at her for a second, the noise of the crowd fading to a low hum, the old familiar urge to say no, to make an excuse, to go back to his quiet empty house and only talk to his dog for the next week warring with the warm flutter in his chest he hadn’t felt since he was 20 years old. “Yeah,” he said, loud enough for her to hear over the cheering. “I’m asking you.”
They exchanged numbers before the night ended, Rafe fumbling with his old flip phone to save her contact, his thumb brushing hers when she typed her name in. He walked her to her beat-up Subaru Outback parked at the edge of the field, the grass crunching under their boots, the air cool now that the sun had set. She leaned in before she opened the car door, kissed his cheek soft, her lips warm against his stubble, the lavender scent of her shampoo wrapping around him for a second before she pulled back. “Text me when you’re picking the dates,” she said, before she climbed in and drove off.
Rafe stood there for a long minute, the crumpled raffle ticket in his palm, the faint pressure of her kiss still lingering on his skin. He pulled out his flip phone, opened a new text to her, and typed “How does the first weekend of August work for you?”
