Roman Voss, 58, spent 32 years as a U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, and he still hasn’t shaken the habit of scanning every room for exits before he even says hello. He’s leaning against a splintered pine picnic table at the annual county fire department beer garden fundraiser, dark ale sweating in his hand, truck keys digging into his palm through the thin fabric of his work jeans. The scar wrapping around his left forearm, pink and raised from the 2019 blaze that cost two crew members their lives, throbs a little when a group of off-duty firefighters laughs too loud a few feet away. He’s five seconds from bailing, already half-turned toward the gravel parking lot, when the sharp, sweet scent of lavender and pine soap hits his nose.
He doesn’t have to look to know who it is. When she reaches across the table for the stack of paper napkins tucked next to a bowl of salted peanuts, her bare forearm brushes his scar, and he flinches so hard he sloshes ale down the side of his scuffed work boot. Clara Marlow, 56, widow of Jake, the crew lead who’d spent three months in the burn unit before succumbing to infection, pulls her hand back like she’s been burned too, but she doesn’t walk away. She leans against the table next to him, her shoulder so close to his he can feel the warmth of her plaid flannel shirt through his faded gray tee, and when a group of kids chasing a golden retriever barrels past, she knocks into his side, her hip pressing to his for half a second before she steadies herself on his arm.
Roman’s throat goes dry. He’s avoided every public event, every department email, every trip into the downtown core for four years, convinced if he saw her he’d break down, or she’d scream at him, call him a coward, tell him he should have stayed in that tower until the fire got him too. He opens his mouth to apologize, to mumble an excuse and run, but she taps the scar on his forearm with her thumb, calloused from splitting firewood and fixing fence posts on the 10-acre plot she bought outside town after Jake died, and says his name soft, like she’s not angry at all. The department released the 2019 radio failure logs last week, she says, like she’s been waiting to tell him for months. She knew the whole time his transmission never went out. He didn’t mess up. He’d run before she could get the words out four years ago, and she’d been looking for him ever since.
The roar of the beer garden fades for a beat, the clink of glass mugs and the cheers from the cornhole tournament in the far corner muffled, like he’s underwater. He’s torn between the familiar, heavy pull of self-loathing, the urge to turn and run and lock himself in his trailer for another month, and the sharp, warm spark of something he hasn’t felt in decades: relief, and something softer, hungrier, that makes his ears go pink. She says she bought the old fire supply shop off Route 26, the one he used to stop at every Tuesday for black coffee and peppered beef jerky during his shifts, and she’s been fixing up the small A-frame cabin behind it. It has a clear line of sight to the ridge he used to man, she says, and she bought a pair of high-powered binoculars she can’t figure out how to calibrate. She makes pot roast that feeds two too many, she adds, and she’s got a fridge full of the same dark ale he’s drinking. She asks if he’d come up Saturday around noon, help her with the binoculars, stay for dinner if he wants.
He stares at her for a long time, watching the golden late-summer sun catch the strands of gray in her dark braid, the small scar on her jaw from when she crashed Jake’s old dirt bike back in 2017, the same one Jake used to tease her about every time they brought donuts up to his tower. He’d spent four years punishing himself, convinced he didn’t deserve forgiveness, didn’t deserve anything but quiet nights alone with his old hound dog and reruns of 70s westerns. He nods before he can talk himself out of it, and she grins, the corner of her mouth tugging up the exact same way Jake’s used to when he’d sneak an extra pack of Roman’s favorite peppermints into his supply drop. She scribbles her cell number on a crumpled napkin, presses it into his palm, her fingers lingering for two beats longer than necessary, and tells him not to be late.
He watches her walk back to her group of friends, her work boots tapping on the asphalt, and looks down at the napkin in his hand, the blue ink smudged a little where her thumb pressed into the paper. He shoves his truck keys back into his jacket pocket, flags down the volunteer carrying a tray of fresh ales, and orders another. For the first time in four years, he doesn’t feel the urge to run.
