Rafe Mendez, 57, spent most of his days tramping through central Oregon’s Deschutes National Forest, marking fuel breaks for the county’s wildfire mitigation program, and most of his nights alone in his off-grid cabin 12 miles outside Bend. Twelve years prior, his wife had left him for a 28-year-old river rafting guide who’d spent one summer crashing on their couch, and he’d built a routine that kept casual connection at arm’s length. His only weekly indulgence was a stop at The Rusty Tap on Galveston Avenue every Wednesday, right after he restocked groceries, for one cold hazy IPA before the trivia night crowd rolled in. That Wednesday, he’d barely taken his third sip when a scent hit him: jasmine and pine soap, sharp over the bar’s baseline of fried peanuts and stale draft beer.
He looked up to find Lila Marquez leaning against the bar two inches from his elbow, her faded red flannel tied around her waist, chipped black nail polish wrapped around the edge of the counter. She was his ex-wife’s first cousin, the one who’d visited them every summer back when they were married, the one who’d asked a hundred questions about his hand-drawn trail maps while his ex rolled her eyes and complained about the dust he tracked into the house. She was 49 now, same crinkles at the corners of her hazel eyes, same freckle splotched across the left side of her jaw he’d always found himself staring at when no one was looking. She nodded at his beer, her elbow brushing his bicep when she shifted to let a server pass, and he felt a jolt run up his arm like he’d touched a downed power line.
She ordered a whiskey sour, loud enough to be heard over the trivia host yelling through a crackling mic about 90s Nickelodeon theme songs, then leaned in so her mouth was an inch from his ear. Her breath was warm against his neck, and he had to fight the urge to shiver. She said she was in town for her little sister’s wedding, had seen him through the bar window when she was walking past, decided to stop in. He knew he should make an excuse to leave. He knew every single person in their extended family would lose their minds if they so much as saw them sitting together, let alone talking. He knew he was already treading into territory he’d spent a decade swearing he’d never touch, that the spark humming between them was the kind of stupid, impulsive thing that burned whole forests to the ground if you didn’t stamp it out fast.
Instead, he asked her how her graphic design business in Portland was going. She laughed, the sound bright enough to cut through the crowd noise, and told him she’d quit six months prior to start a small press printing hand-illustrated trail maps of the Pacific Northwest. She asked about his work, about the fuel breaks he’d spent the last three years mapping along the Cascade crest, and he found himself talking for 20 minutes straight, rambling about underbrush density and fire return intervals, and she didn’t look bored once. When he reached for his beer at the same time she reached for her whiskey glass, their hands brushed, fingers tangling for half a second before she pulled back, her cheeks pink, like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. He didn’t move his hand away, just let it rest on the bar an inch from hers, the space between them thrumming like a live wire.
By the time trivia ended, the bar was clearing out, and rain was lashing against the windows so hard you could barely see the streetlights through the glass. She sighed, twisting the ring on her index finger, and said she’d walked here, her hotel was six blocks away, she’d just run through the rain. He told her he could drive her, no problem. She didn’t argue. They walked out to his beat up 2012 Ford F150, rain soaking through the shoulders of their jackets, and he turned the heat on full blast once they were inside, the vents blowing dusty warm air that smelled like pine needles and old coffee. He reached back to grab the wool blanket he kept stowed behind the driver’s seat for cold hikes, and when he turned back, her face was inches from his, her eyes dark.
She kissed him first, slow, her hand cupping the side of his jaw, and he tasted whiskey sour and mint lip balm, and for the first time in 12 years, he didn’t overthink it. He didn’t think about his ex, didn’t think about the family drama, didn’t think about the walls he’d built around himself since the divorce. He just kissed her back, his hand tangled in the ends of her curly brown hair, the rain tapping hard against the truck’s roof like a thousand tiny applause.
He drove her to the hotel, the tires hissing on the wet pavement, and when he pulled up to the curb, she turned to him, her thumb brushing the back of his knuckle where a scar ran from a chainsaw accident 10 years prior. She asked if he wanted to come up. He nodded, grabbed the umbrella he kept behind the seat, and walked around to open her door, his hand resting on the small of her back as they ran through the rain to the lobby doors. The night clerk didn’t look up from his phone as they walked past, their boots leaving dark wet splotches on the beige tile floor.
