Roland Voss, 59, retired wildland fire crew boss with a scar splitting his left eyebrow from a falling branch during the 2020 Cameron Peak fire and a habit of carrying a folding pocket saw in his jeans pocket even when he’s just running errands, leaned against a split-rail fence at the annual Nederland fall beer festival and debated bailing early. He’d only showed up because his 72-year-old neighbor Marnie had badgered him for three weeks straight, saying he spent too much time holed up in his cabin fixing the decommissioned fire truck he’d bought at a state auction six months prior, too much time talking to his late wife’s urn instead of actual people. The air smelled like pine, roasted green chiles, and sharp, fruity hop resin, and the crowd buzzed loud enough to make his ears ring, a leftover side effect from decades of standing next to fire hoses and chainsaws.
He was halfway through his second hazy IPA when he heard that laugh. Warm, throaty, a little rough around the edges from years of smoking menthols she swore she quit three years ago, and his neck went tight before he even turned around. It was Lila Marlow, his late wife Elise’s first cousin, the woman he’d only seen a handful of times since Elise’s funeral, the one who’d moved back to the area six months prior to run a rural cat and dog rescue out of the old farm her grandma left her. He’d avoided her on purpose. There’d always been a spark, quiet, unacknowledged, the kind that made Elise tease him at family cookouts back in the 90s that Lila stared at his biceps a little too long when he was flipping burgers. It felt like a betrayal, even now, to even notice how her auburn hair had streaks of silver running through it, how her sun-weathered hands had calluses at the knuckles from hauling dog crates and mending fence lines, how her denim jacket fit tight across her shoulders.
She spotted him before he could duck behind the port-a-potty line, and she waved, weaving through the crowd of flannel-clad locals and college kids up from Boulder. The hem of her jeans was caked in mud, and she was holding a plastic cup of hard cider, and when she stopped less than a foot away from him, he could smell the vanilla lotion she wore and the faint, earthy scent of horse shampoo on her sleeves. “Thought that was you,” she said, grinning, and her eyes crinkled at the corners the exact same way Elise’s did, a pang hitting him square in the chest that was half grief, half something sharper, warmer, something he’d spent three years shoving down as hard as he could. He hated that he felt it, hated that his first thought when he saw her was that he’d rather talk to her than anyone else in this whole crowded field, hated the part of him that didn’t feel guilty for that.
They made small talk first, awkward, stilted, her asking about the fire truck, him asking about the rescue, and slowly the tension ebbed. She told him about the 120-pound mastiff she’d picked up off the side of the highway the week prior, the one that had a habit of stealing socks off the laundry line, and he laughed so hard he spilled a little beer on his boot. When they walked over to the food truck line to get a basket of green chile cheese fries, she kept brushing up against his arm, not hard, just enough that he could feel the heat of her through his flannel, and she didn’t apologize, didn’t step away. When they got the fries, they leaned against the side of the food truck, passing the basket back and forth, and when they both reached for the last crispy, cheese-covered fry at the same time, their hands tangled, her cool, calloused fingers wrapping around his for a beat longer than necessary.
She didn’t pull away first. She just held his gaze, her smile softening, and said, “Elise told me once, right after you two got married, that if anything ever happened to her, she wanted me to check on you. Said you’d be too stubborn to ask for help.” His throat went dry. He’d spent three years telling himself that even thinking about anyone else, especially Lila, was a slap in the face to Elise’s memory, that he deserved to be lonely, that that was the price of loving someone that much. But standing there, with her hand still on his, the sun dipping low over the continental divide painting the sky pink and orange, the sound of a bluegrass band playing off in the distance, he realized all that guilt was just him being stupid, him punishing himself for no reason. Elise would have laughed at him for moping this long.
“Was gonna head out soon,” he said, his voice a little rougher than he meant it to be. “Got that fire truck half taken apart in the garage. If you want to come see it. I’ve got a bottle of that apple pie whiskey you used to like hidden in the pantry too.” She grinned, squeezing his hand before she let go, and slung her arm through his, her shoulder pressed tight to his bicep as they walked toward the dirt parking lot. He didn’t overthink it, didn’t spiral into what his cousins would say, what Elise’s side of the family would think, didn’t feel the heavy weight of grief he’d carried for three years pressing down on his chest for the first time in as long as he could remember. He unlocked the passenger door for her, his fingers brushing the small of her back as she climbed in, and for the first time in three years, he didn’t feel the urge to apologize for wanting something for himself.
