Rafe Marquez, 53, retired hotshot crew foreman turned native plant nursery owner, showed up to the Flagstaff beer garden chili cookoff only to drop off a smoked brisket for his former crewmate’s booth. He planned to leave 10 minutes flat, before anyone could corner him into rambling conversations about knee replacements or grandkid soccer games. His scarred left forearm itched under the frayed cuff of his 15-year-old Carhartt jacket, a leftover twitch from the 2017 Sedona blaze that ended his firefighting career, and he’d already grabbed a cold IPA to sip on his drive home when a voice stopped him.
“Rafe? I’d know that beat up jacket anywhere.”
He turned. Lila Mendez, 48, his ex-wife’s youngest cousin, stood three feet away, holding a half-eaten cornbread muffin and a jar of neon orange habanero jelly. He’d only seen her a handful of times, mostly at family weddings back when he was still married, when she was a 20-something art student with dyed blue hair who snuck outside to smoke cigarettes and never stayed longer than an hour. She’d moved back to town two months prior to care for her mom, who’d had a stroke, and he’d avoided running into her on purpose, figured any connection to his ex wasn’t worth the hassle.
She stepped closer, holding out the jar of jelly. Her boots scuffed the sawdust under their feet, and he caught the scent of cedar and peppermint lip balm when she moved into his space. “Made this this morning. Figured a guy who spends half his time smoking meat would appreciate something with a kick.”
Their fingers brushed when he took the jar. His calluses, rough from 22 years of hauling fire hoses and digging fire lines, scraped against hers, which were dotted with tiny flecks of tattoo ink and calloused at the pads from holding tattoo machines for 20 years. He noticed the tiny black flame tattooed on the inside of her wrist, right where his own scar started snaking up his forearm.
He should have thanked her, wished her well, and walked to his truck. That’s what he would have done a month prior. But she leaned against the split rail fence next to him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his bicep every time a group of drunk college kids stumbled past, and started making fun of the local mayor’s terrible chili, which was so watery it looked like tomato soup. She didn’t ask him generic small talk questions. She asked about the scar on his arm, asked what it was like to run a hotshot crew, laughed so hard at his story about his crew’s 2015 camp coffee that was so strong it could dissolve a nail that she snort-laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth like she was embarrassed.
The taboo of it niggled at the back of his head the whole time they talked. She was his ex’s cousin. If his ex found out they were so much as standing next to each other, she’d text every member of their extended family to gossip about it before the sun went down. He’d spent 8 years deliberately avoiding any drama, any casual connection that could turn messy, since his divorce was finalized. But Lila kept holding his eye contact longer than was polite, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he made a dry joke, and every time her shoulder brushed his he felt a warm buzz in his chest that had nothing to do with the IPA.
The sun dipped below the San Francisco Peaks as they talked, string lights strung above the beer garden flickered on, and the classic rock cover band set up near the stage started playing a slow, twangy version of a Tom Petty song. Lila pushed off the fence, held out her hand to him.
“C’mon. Dance with me.”
Rafe shook his head. “I don’t dance. Haven’t since our wedding, and I was three sheets to the wind then.”
She tugged on his hand, her fingers wrapping around his wrist right below the edge of his scar. “Too bad. I’ve waited 26 years to dance with you. You’re not gonna make me do it alone.”
That stopped him. He stared at her, and she tilted her chin up, unapologetic, and said she’d had a crush on him since she was 22, when he’d carried her drunk older sister out of their wedding reception and didn’t even complain about the puke on his boots. She’d never said anything back then because he was married, and she didn’t mess with taken men, but now he wasn’t, and she was here, and what was the worst that could happen?
The niggling voice in his head that screamed about drama and messy family ties went quiet. He let her pull him into the small crowd of people dancing near the stage. She slid one hand up to his shoulder, kept the other wrapped around his, and leaned in so her hip pressed against his as they swayed to the music. Her hair brushed his jaw when she moved, and he could taste the faint sweetness of her lip balm when she tilted her head up to talk to him over the music.
He didn’t overthink it. He leaned down and kissed her, slow, and she made a soft, surprised noise against his mouth that tasted like IPA and the habanero jelly she’d snuck a spoonful of 10 minutes earlier. A few people around them whooped, and he didn’t even care.
When the song ended, he laced his fingers through hers, and they walked toward his beat up 2008 Ford F150 parked down the street. He opened the passenger door for her, and before she climbed in, she ran her thumb gently over the scar snaking up his forearm, warm and steady.
