Roy Pacheco, 62, retired Deschutes National Forest fire spotter, leaned against the splintered cedar fence lining the small Oregon town’s annual fire department chili cook-off, a sweating can of IPA in one hand and a chili-stained paper napkin crumpled in the other. He’d only shown up because his old fire crew had begged, threatened to leave his favorite huckleberry pie off the potluck table if he bailed, and he’d spent the first 45 minutes tucked as far from his ex-wife’s extended family cluster as he could get without hiding in the port-a-potty. His most defining flaw, the one his ex had yelled about in their divorce papers, was that he held grudges longer than the Ponderosa pines he’d spent 32 years watching from his 70-foot lookout tower, and 18 years prior, he’d lost his vintage 1972 Abu Garcia fishing reel to Elara Mendez, his ex-wife’s cousin, in a bet he’d sworn was rigged. He’d not spoken a full sentence to her since, even though he’d thought she was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen at his wedding the year before that stupid fishing trip.
The crowd shifted, and suddenly she was standing two inches from the scuffed toe of his work boots, a mason jar of peach habanero sauce held in one calloused hand, sun streaks cutting through the dark gray threads in her shoulder-length hair. He could smell lavender and clove from the hand salve she used for her herb farm, and the faint, sweet burn of the sauce in the jar, and for half a second he thought about ducking behind the beer tent. She didn’t give him the chance. “Was wondering how long you were gonna hide over here like a bear that stole a camper’s cooler,” she said, grinning, the same gap between her two front teeth he’d stared at across the wedding reception dance floor all those years ago. She held up a canvas tote he hadn’t noticed, pulled out the very same Abu Garcia reel, the scratch on its side from when he’d dropped it on a river rock still faint and visible.
His throat went tight. He’d spent 18 years bitching about that reel, telling anyone who’d listen that she’d cheated, that her no-good college boyfriend had tied his line to a submerged log so he’d yank too hard, reel flying off his rod into the river, forfeit the bet. He’d been so mad he’d driven home without saying goodbye, had declined every family birthday, holiday, cook-off since, even when his ex had told him Elara kept asking after him. When he reached out to take the reel, their fingers brushed, callus on callus, and a jolt shot up his arm so sharp he almost dropped the IPA. He hadn’t touched anyone outside of a half-hearted handshake in three years, not since his ex had packed up the truck and moved to Arizona. “My ex tied your line to that log,” she said, like she was reading his mind, leaning in a little closer now, her shoulder almost brushing his, her dark eyes fixed on his so he couldn’t look away. “I dumped him two weeks later. Total coward move. I’ve been carrying that reel around to every family event for 15 years waiting for you to show up so I could give it back.”
The anger he’d carried for almost two decades warred with the warm buzz in his chest, the way her knee was now pressed to his, the way she was looking at his mouth like she was wondering if he still drank the same black coffee he’d been sipping at that fishing trip dock. He’d spent so long telling himself he hated her, that she was just a petty cheater who’d stolen his favorite thing, that he’d forgotten how much he’d wanted to ask her out before he’d even proposed to his ex, how he’d chickened out because he’d thought she was too good for a guy who spent 10 months a year alone on a mountain. “The whole family’s got a bet going on when you two would stop being dumbasses,” she said, snorting, nodding at the cluster of her relatives across the field, all of them pretending not to stare. “Pot’s at $1,200 last I checked. Started it 10 years ago.”
He laughed, the rough, scratchy laugh he only used when he was so flustered he didn’t know what else to do, and tucked the reel into the pocket of his worn flannel shirt. He set the half-empty IPA on the fence post behind him, reached up, brushed a stray strand of hair off her forehead, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her cheek. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just leaned into the touch a little, her hand coming to rest on his forearm. “I was an idiot,” he said, quiet enough only she could hear, the words tasting weird in his mouth, like he wasn’t used to admitting he was wrong. “Avoided all this not because of the reel. Because I was scared I’d make a move on you and mess up the whole family, and too proud to say I thought you were the hottest thing at that wedding.”
She threw her head back and laughed so loud a couple of people turned to look, then laced her fingers through his, her palm warm and rough against his. They walked across the fairground together, his hand resting light on the small of her back, and when they reached the family’s picnic table, someone slammed the stack of cash down on the wooden surface, whooping loud enough to scare the stray dog napping under the bench. He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear, so the rest of the crowd couldn’t hear, and said they should take the cash, drive up to his old lookout tower that weekend, no cell service, no family, just the view of the mountains and the peach pie he’d stashed in his truck. She squeezed his hand, hard, and nodded, pulling a folding chair out for him next to her. He picked up a plastic spoon, dipped it into her pot of chili, and took a bite, already counting down the hours until they could leave the crowd behind.
