Roman Voss, 62, leaned against the splintered wooden pole of the harvest street dance beer tent, sweating through the collar of his faded forest service tee even though the September evening had cooled to 71 degrees. The asphalt under his scuffed work boots was sticky from spilled soda and melted cotton candy. He’d only shown up because his former fire crew partner had begged, said they hadn’t caught up in six months, and then bailed 20 minutes in to take his grandkid to the emergency room for a skateboard crash. The beer was watery, the country band off to his left was butchering a 90s Alan Jackson track, and every third person that walked past stopped to ask how he was liking retirement, like it was some grand prize instead of just endless days fixing fence on his 10 acre plot and watching old westerns alone.
He was half debating ditching entirely when he caught a whiff of jasmine and citrus shampoo, sharp enough to cut through the smell of fried oreos and spilled beer. A woman he didn’t recognize at first stumbled into his side, her bare shoulder brushing his bicep, when a group of drunk teen boys pushed past chasing each other with glow sticks. She steadied herself with a hand on his forearm, calloused at the fingertips, and laughed, the sound bright over the twang of the guitar. “Sorry about that. These kids are feral tonight.”
When he looked down, his throat went dry. It was Lila Marquez. He’d last seen her when she was 17, cheerleading uniform on, backpack slung over one shoulder, waiting on the steps of the general store for him to give her a ride home after her mom’s late shift at the hospital. He’d done that twice a week for three years back then, when his ex-wife was still speaking to him, still friends with Lila’s mom. He’d thought about her more times than he’d ever admit to anyone, felt sick with guilt every time, because she was a kid then, too young, and he was married, and he knew better than to linger on the way she’d grin when he left peppermint candies on the passenger seat for her.
She was 38 now, he realized, dark hair streaked with a single strand of silver at the temple, wearing a cut off flannel and high waisted jeans, a tattoo of a fern curling up her left wrist. She recognized him immediately, her brown eyes widening for half a second before she smiled again, leaning back against the pole next to him so their elbows were barely an inch apart. He could feel the heat radiating off her skin, and he shifted his weight like he might move away, but didn’t.
“Roman, right? I heard you retired from the lookout post a few years back. I always thought you’d live up there forever.” She ordered a blackberry seltzer from the bartender, nodding when he asked if she wanted ice, and turned back to him, holding his eye contact longer than was strictly casual. He looked away first, wiping condensation from his beer can onto his work pants, flustered in a way he hadn’t been since he was a teen himself. He kept waiting for that familiar twist of disgust in his gut, the voice that told him this was wrong, that he was old enough to be her dad, that everyone in this town would talk if they saw them standing too close. It didn’t come.
They talked for 40 minutes, easy, like no time had passed at all. She told him she’d moved back to town two months prior, opened a small plant shop on Main Street in the old video rental space, had a rescue pit bull named Mabel that chewed through half her inventory every other week. He told her he still kept the lookout cabin, drove up there once a week to fix the windows and watch the sun set over the valley, still left peppermints in the cup holder of his truck out of habit. When she laughed at his story about the mayor tripping over a hay bale and face planting into a peach pie at last year’s harvest festival, she leaned into him, her shoulder pressing firm into his arm, and he didn’t move away.
She leaned in then, her mouth close enough to his ear that he could feel her breath warm against his jaw, and said something that made his heart stutter in his chest. “I had the biggest crush on you back then, you know? Used to tell my mom I hoped you’d be the one picking me up, not your wife. Thought you were the quietest, toughest guy I’d ever met.”
He froze for a full three seconds, the noise of the dance fading into a low hum in his ears. For 20 years he’d carried that guilt around, convinced he was some kind of creep for even noticing her, for wanting something he couldn’t have, something that felt forbidden. Now she was standing right next to him, looking up at him like she knew exactly what he was thinking, and there was no judgment in her eyes, no hesitation. He reached up, slow, like he was approaching a skittish deer, and brushed a stray curl that had fallen across her face behind her ear, his knuckle grazing her soft cheek. She leaned into the touch, her hand coming up to rest over his wrist for half a second before she pulled back, grinning.
He didn’t care what the town would say. He didn’t care that he was 24 years older than her, that his ex-wife would throw a fit if she found out, that he’d spent 20 years convincing himself he didn’t deserve anything that felt this good. The guilt he’d carried for so long melted away, replaced by that sharp, giddy thrill he’d thought he’d lost forever when he turned 50, when he’d decided the rest of his life would be quiet and small and alone.
He nodded his head toward the edge of the crowd, where his beat up 2008 Ford F-150 was parked half a block away, the keys in his pocket digging into his thigh. “Wanna get out of here? I can take you up to the lookout. No one will bother us up there. Got a cooler of cold beer in the truck, and the sunset tonight’s supposed to be real good.”
She slipped her hand into his, her fingers fitting between his like they were made to be there, and squeezed, her thumb brushing the thin, pale scar on the back of his hand from a chainsaw accident 15 years prior. She didn’t say anything, just nodded, and they slipped through the crowd, quiet, no one paying them any attention, the sound of the band fading behind them as they walked toward his truck.
