Rafe Mendez, 53, spent 22 years on a federal wildland fire crew before a blown knee forced him into early retirement, now runs 120 hives on a 17-acre plot outside Weaverville, California. His biggest flaw is he holds grudges so long he can barely remember the original slight half the time, and for 18 years, he’s carried a sharp, unshakable dislike for Lena Carter, his ex-wife’s younger sister. He’d been convinced she ratted him out for bailing on his mother-in-law’s 60th birthday dinner to respond to a fast-moving blaze in the Trinity Alps, the fight that finally broke his already fraying marriage for good.
He’s at the local pub for weekly trivia, the only social event he forces himself to attend most weeks, when he spots her across the room, leaning against the bar in a charcoal wool coat, laughing at something the bartender said. His first instinct is to leave, but his team already lost two members to flu season, and the cash prize for first place is enough to cover three months of hive supplies. The trivia host announces last call for team sign-ups, and Lena’s head turns, locks eyes with him, and she’s walking over before he can duck behind his beer.
“Your team’s short a person, right? Mine bailed on me last minute because their kid has a soccer tournament,” she says, sliding into the booth across from him without waiting for an answer. Her knee brushes his under the table when she shifts to grab a stack of paper coasters to scribble answers on, the rough wool of her tights scraping against the frayed cuff of his work jeans, and he flinches like he’s been stung. He can smell her perfume, cedar and wild blackberry, the same scent that used to cling to the brush he’d cut line through during summer fire seasons, and his chest tightens for a reason he can’t name.
The first three rounds are awkward. He answers every 90s action movie and tree identification question correctly, she nails the literature and pop culture categories he’d never be able to guess, and they barely speak, except to mutter answers back and forth across the table. Halfway through the fourth round, they both reach for the last pretzel bite on the shared plate at the same time, their fingers brushing, and he yanks his hand back like he touched a hot stove. She snorts, wiping salt off her thumb with a napkin. “Relax, Rafe. I don’t bite. Not unless you ask nicely, anyway.”
The teasing makes his ears go red, and he glares at her, but there’s no real heat in it. “I thought you hated me, for the record.” She blinks, tilting her head, and the string of tiny silver stars on her earring catches the neon light over the bar. “Why would I hate you? I always thought you were too good for my sister. She never cared how many nights you slept on the ground fighting fires to pay for her stupid art retreats.”
The words hang in the air between them, thick enough to cut with a knife. He leans forward, elbows on the table, forgetting to keep his distance. “I thought you told her I skipped that birthday dinner for a fire call. I thought you ratted me out.” She laughs, sharp and surprised, and shakes her head. “That was Mrs. Henderson next door. She saw your truck parked at the station, called my mom, told her you were off playing hero instead of showing up for family. I tried to tell her you had no choice, but she wouldn’t listen. Neither would my sister. I’ve been wanting to tell you that for 18 years, but you always left every room I walked into before I could get a word out.”
He sits back, stunned, the grudge he’s carried for almost two decades feeling stupid, heavy, useless in his chest. They win trivia by 12 points, and she insists on buying him a celebratory whiskey neat, sliding the glass across the table to him, her fingers brushing his again, this time he doesn’t pull away. It’s pouring rain when they leave the pub, and she’s staying three blocks away at her mom’s house while the 78-year-old recovers from a hip replacement, so he offers to walk her, even though his truck is parked right outside the door.
She leans into him a little when they cross the street, the wind blowing her hair into his face, and he puts his hand on her upper arm to steady her when she slips on a puddle. She stops on the sidewalk right outside her mom’s porch, turning to face him, rain dripping off the end of her nose, and kisses him, soft at first, then harder when he doesn’t pull away, her hands fisted in the front of his flannel shirt. He can taste the whiskey on her tongue, the salt from the pretzels, and for the first time in years, he doesn’t feel the urge to run from something that feels good.
She pulls back, grinning, and nods toward the warm porch light glowing behind her. “My mom’s asleep. You wanna come in for coffee? I sell local honey in my bookshop in Portland, I’d love to stock yours.” He nods, not trusting himself to speak, and follows her up the steps, his boots squelching in the wet grass at the edge of the walkway. He flicks the last of the rain off his jacket sleeve, his knuckles still buzzing where her palm had wrapped around his on the walk over, and reaches for the screen door handle ahead of her.
