Rio Mendez, 59, retired wildland fire crew superintendent, had only shown up to the township fire department’s annual beer tent fundraiser because his former crewmate dragged him there with a guilt trip about supporting the guys who covered his old rural district. Eight years out from losing his wife to ovarian cancer, he’d made a habit of skipping all small town events, hating the way strangers’ eyes softened when they recognized him, the quiet “how you holding up?” questions that felt like they were prying scabs off a half-healed wound. He’d spent the morning clearing fallen pines off his property line, so his work boots were caked with sap and pine needles, his faded Carhartt shirt still smelled like chainsaw exhaust, and he’d planned to grab a single beer, buy a $20 raffle ticket, and bolt for his quiet cabin in the woods within 15 minutes.
The tent reeked of fried onion rings, cheap draft lager, and coconut sunscreen from the clusters of kids darting between picnic tables with sticky cotton candy fists. A cover band at the far end bumbled through a Tom Petty deep cut, the guitarist fumbling the solo so bad a handful of guys at the front table booed good-naturedly. Rio leaned against a wooden support post, sipping his beer and scanning for the exit, when he felt a cold splash hit his left bicep.
He looked down to see half a plastic cup of amber lager soaking through his shirt sleeve, and a woman with sun-streaked blonde hair and hazel eyes crinkled in mortified laughter standing in front of him. She’d tripped over a toddler’s stroller parked by the post, her free hand flying out to steady herself against his forearm before she could face-plant into the asphalt. “Oh Christ, I am so sorry,” she said, dabbing at the wet spot with a crumpled napkin she pulled from her jeans pocket, her warm fingers brushing his skin through the thin fabric. He recognized her immediately: Lila Marlow, 47, who’d brought her beat-up 1978 Ski-Doo to his garage three months prior, begging him to fix the carburetor the local powersports shop had told her was unfixable. He’d gotten it running for half the quote she’d been given, and she’d left a tin of homemade chocolate chip cookies on his workbench as a tip.
She was freshly divorced from the county sheriff, everyone in town knew that, the papers had only been signed two weeks prior. Half the single men within a 20 mile radius had been warned off hitting on her by the sheriff’s buddies, so talking to her felt like a small, stupid act of rebellion Rio hadn’t known he wanted. She stayed close, leaning in every time the band cranked up the volume so her voice didn’t get lost in the noise, her shoulder brushing his every time a group of people squeezed past them between tables. She didn’t ask about his wife, didn’t give him that pitying look he hated. She asked about the 2016 Yellowstone fire he’d spent three weeks on, the stories he rarely told anyone, laughing so hard at the part where he’d accidentally spilled a whole pot of coffee on his crew boss that she snort-laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth like she was embarrassed by the sound.
They sat down at an empty picnic table a few minutes later, her knee brushing his under the table when she shifted to cross her legs, passing him a pretzel bite slathered in mustard, their fingers brushing when he took it. He felt a jolt low in his gut he hadn’t felt in close to a decade, equal parts excitement and sharp, prickly guilt that he was even enjoying talking to another woman. He could see the sheriff glowering at them from the VIP table near the band, jaw tight, and Rio almost stood up to leave, ready to avoid the gossip mill before it even started.
Then the emcee grabbed the mic to call the raffle winners, running through the small prizes first: a gift card to the local diner, a set of custom grill tools, a free oil change. When he called the grand prize, a two-day guided fishing trip on Lake Michigan with all gear included, Rio heard his own name called over the speakers. Before he could even raise his hand to acknowledge it, Lila leaned back, whooped loud enough that the people at the tables around them turned to look, and yelled “I call shotgun, you owe me for drenching your shirt earlier” so clearly even the sheriff heard it, rolling his eyes and storming out of the tent.
Rio stared at her for a beat, then laughed, a real, deep laugh he hadn’t let out in years, and nodded. She stood up, grabbing his wrist to tug him toward the volunteer table to claim the prize voucher, her hand warm and firm around his skin, no hesitation. They walked out of the tent ten minutes later, the sun dipping low over the pine trees at the edge of the parking lot, her hand brushing his knuckles every few steps as they headed toward his beat-up pickup. He’d already forgotten about the stack of tree rounds he was supposed to split that evening, forgotten about the quiet, empty cabin waiting for him up the road, forgotten every excuse he’d made for the last eight years to keep people at arm’s length. When she tucks a strand of wind-tousled hair behind her ear and grins up at him, asking if he’s got a good fishing rod stashed somewhere at his place, he realizes he didn’t even remember to grab the printed voucher for the trip from the volunteer’s table, and he doesn’t give a damn.
