Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, had avoided the west end of the annual Kalispell Fall Craft Fair for 19 straight years. He’d spent the two decades prior to that associating the sharp, sweet smell of molten glass with Mara Hale, Elara’s younger cousin, the woman he’d blamed for bailing on caregiving shifts when Elara was dying of stage 3 breast cancer. He was gruff, held grudges like he held the old pair of binoculars he’d used for 30 years on the fire tower: tight, close, unwilling to let anyone else touch them, that was his flaw—he never asked for context before he wrote someone off for good.
The air that October smelled like pine needles and fried dough and the sharp kick of spiced apple cider he carried in a chipped ceramic mug. He’d wandered over by accident, distracted by a kid chasing a golden retriever past the jam booth, and when he looked up, there she was. She was 58 now, streaks of silver threading through the chestnut hair she had pulled back in a braid, a smudge of ash on her left cheek, leaning over a table of swirling blue and green glass tumblers that looked like they’d caught pieces of the Flathead Lake sunset. She looked up before he could turn away, and their eyes locked for three full beats, no looking away, no awkward half-smile.
His grip on the cider mug tightened so hard his knuckles whitened, and a slosh of hot liquid spilled over the edge, burning the skin of his wrist. He hissed, shaking his hand out, and she was around the table before he could step back, her calloused left hand wrapping around his wrist to tilt it toward the cold jug of water she kept by her display stand. Their skin touched, and he jolted a little—her hand was warmer than he expected, rough from working with glass, a faint raised scar snaking up her forearm that he’d never seen before.
He pulled his wrist back first, sharp, like he’d been burned again. “What are you doing here?” His voice was rougher than he meant it to be, the way it always got when he was angry and embarrassed at the same time.
She didn’t flinch, just wiped her hand on the frayed edge of her flannel shirt, the same navy blue cut Elara used to steal from his closet back in the 90s. “I’ve been on the craft fair circuit for 19 years. I always skipped this one. Figured it was time to stop running.” She held up her right arm, turning it so the scar ran all the way up to her elbow, faint and silvery now. “I didn’t flake on Elara, Ronan. I hit a deer on the drive up from Missoula. Broke my right hand, shattered my elbow. Spent three months in rehab, had to learn to blow glass left-handed. I didn’t call because I didn’t want to make her last months about my mess.”
The words hit him like a fist to the sternum. He’d spent 20 years hating her, painting her as the selfish kid who cared more about her fancy art degree than her dying cousin, and every bit of that anger dissolved so fast he felt lightheaded. He could hear the hum of the small glass furnace behind her, smell the jasmine perfume she wore under the burnt sugar scent of molten glass, watch the way her thumb rubbed the edge of a glass tumbler like she was nervous he wouldn’t believe her.
The first raindrop hit his cheek before he could answer, fat and cold, and the crowd around them erupted into chaos, vendors scrambling to pack their displays before the downpour hit. He didn’t think, just grabbed the two heaviest crates of glass from under her table, hefting them easily like he still hauled supply packs up the fire tower stairs every day, and followed her to her beat up 2008 Ford Ranger parked at the edge of the fairgrounds. The rain was coming down hard by the time they set the last crate in the bed of the truck, both of them soaked through, their flannels sticking to their shoulders, their boots caked in mud.
She was standing so close to him when he shut the truck bed that their shoulders were pressed together, no space between them, and he could feel her breath on his jaw when she tilted her chin up to look at him. “I always thought you were the best man Elara ever found,” she said, quiet enough that only he could hear it over the rain drumming on the truck roof. “Even when you sent me that angry letter telling me never to contact either of you again.”
He didn’t kiss her, not then, not with the rain pouring down and half the town’s vendors running past them. He just lifted his hand, brushed the wet hair that had fallen out of her braid off her face, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her cheek, and she didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just leaned into the touch a little, like she’d been waiting for it for 20 years.
They drove to the old dive bar downtown, the one with the peanut shell covered floor and the jukebox that only played songs pre-2000, and slid into the back booth that he’d sat in every Friday night since Elara died. They split an order of fried cheese curds and a pitcher of cheap lager, and when that old Irish folk song Elara used to sing in the kitchen while she made pancakes came on the jukebox, she tapped her boot along to the beat under the table, her foot brushing his calf, warm and solid.
He didn’t apologize for the letter, not yet, and she didn’t ask him to. They just talked, about the fire tower, about her glass work, about Elara’s terrible habit of stealing everyone’s socks, until the rain stopped and the bar lights dimmed for the evening crowd. He walked her out to her truck when she said she had to head to her hotel, and when she leaned in to hug him goodbye, he wrapped his arms around her tight, the smell of jasmine and burnt sugar sticking to his flannel long after she drove away. When he got back in his own pickup, he pulled out his phone, typed out a text asking if she wanted to go fishing on the lake the next morning, and hit send before he could talk himself out of it.
