Javier Ruiz is 59, spent 22 years as a smokejumper before retiring to work as a wildfire mitigation consultant in Bend, Oregon. His biggest flaw is that he’s spent the last 8 years treating casual human interaction like a controlled burn he has to outrun, ever since his wife left for Florida and he lost two of his closest crew members in the 2017 Eagle Creek fire. He only ever leaves his cedar cabin for client meetings, early morning hikes with his 7-year-old golden retriever Mabel, and quick runs to the hardware store. He’d avoided the weekly downtown farmers market for three straight years until Mabel, tugging hard on her leash after spotting a pack of corgis by the entrance, dragged him through the gate on an 82-degree July afternoon.
He was already planning his escape route, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his grease-stained Carhartt jacket, the other white-knuckling Mabel’s leash, when he spotted her. Elara, his new next door neighbor, who he’d deliberately avoided for three weeks ever since she’d moved in, hauling stacks of beat-up hardcovers into the blue bungalow next to his. She was leaning against the wooden peach stand, auburn hair streaked with silver pulled back in a messy braid, a smudge of dark soil on her left forearm from planting tomato seedlings that morning, worn denim overalls rolled up to her calves, Birkenstocks caked with mud. She was holding a half-eaten peach to her mouth, juice glistening on her lower lip, when she looked up and caught him staring.
She waved, grinning, and Mabel took the chance to yank forward so hard Javier stumbled, his shoulder bumping Elara’s, his palm brushing the small of her back for half a second before he yelped and pulled back. He smelled like pine and diesel from the brush clearing job he’d finished that morning, and she smelled like ripe peach and lavender hand lotion, faint enough that he had to lean in a little to catch it, which made him feel like an idiot.
“Was starting to think you only existed behind that privacy fence of yours,” she said, teasing, no bite in her voice, and Javier flushed, scratching the back of his neck. He’d hidden behind that fence three times already when he saw her out watering her flowers, too awkward to make small talk, too tired of people giving him that soft, pitying look when they found out what he used to do for work. He mumbled an apology for crashing into her, and she held out a pale yellow peach, still warm from the sun, for him to try.
He took a bite, sweet juice running down his chin before he could catch it, and she laughed, a low, warm sound, pulling a crumpled linen napkin out of her overalls pocket and dabbing it off his jaw, her fingers brushing the stubble on his cheek for a split second. He froze, his chest tight, equal parts embarrassed that he was flustered like a 16-year-old kid at his first dance and furious at himself for shutting himself off for so long that a single casual touch made his heart race.
He almost made an excuse to leave right then, but Mabel had curled up at Elara’s feet, head resting on her boot, and Elara was already asking him if he wanted to walk the market with her, pointing out the honey stand he’d been meaning to hit up for tea, the food truck that made bratwursts with sauerkraut just like the ones he used to get at fairs as a kid. He agreed before he could talk himself out of it.
They wandered for an hour, her stopping every few minutes to chat with vendors, him trailing a half step behind, not talking much, but not wanting to leave either. She told him she ran a used mystery bookstore downtown, moved from Portland six months after her ex husband left her for a 28-year-old barista, that she’d left a welcome snickerdoodle on his porch two weeks prior and wondered if he’d hated it. Javier winced, admitting he’d left it on the step for two days before he threw it away, too stubborn to answer the door, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, which made him laugh too, a real, deep laugh he hadn’t let out in years.
They sat at a splintered wooden picnic table by the food truck, their knees brushing under the table when they leaned in to pass the mustard, her shoulder pressed against his when she lowered her voice to tell him about the customer who’d tried to trade a live chicken for a first edition of *The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency* the week prior. He told her about the time he and his crew had jumped into a fire outside of Missoula and ended up staying for three days with a retired rancher who fed them nothing but bison chili and homemade whiskey, and she didn’t give him that pitying look when he mentioned the crew members he’d lost, just nodded, squeezed his wrist for a second, and said that sounded like the kind of story you don’t tell people who don’t get it.
By the time the sun started to dip low, they had a paper bag full of peaches, a jar of raw wildflower honey, and a half-empty bag of kettle corn between them. Elara wiped a crumb of kettle corn off his shirt, leaned in close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her green eyes, and asked if he wanted to come over that night to grill the peaches with vanilla ice cream, and watch the beat-up VHS copy of *The Wild Bunch* she’d picked up at a garage sale that weekend. She told him she’d leave the side gate unlocked so he didn’t have to ring the doorbell if he was still skittish about talking to neighbors.
He hesitated for half a second, thinking about the stack of old fire footage DVDs he had sitting on his coffee table, the six pack of IPA he’d bought to drink alone that night, the quiet empty cabin he’d gotten used to. Then he nodded, said he’d bring the bourbon he had stashed by his front door.
He walked Mabel home, the paper bag of peaches slung over his arm, the faint smell of lavender still clinging to the sleeve of his jacket. He stopped on his porch, grabbed the unopened bottle of bourbon he’d been saving for a rainy day off the porch rail, tucked it under his arm, and followed Mabel as she trotted straight for Elara’s unlocked side gate.
