Rafe Muñoz, 58, retired wildland fire crew boss, had spent the first two hours of the county 4-H barbecue staring at the scuffed toes of his work boots, wishing he’d skipped volunteering at the fire safety booth this year. He’d intentionally isolated himself for 12 years, ever since his wife packed her bags and left for a real estate agent in Boise without so much as a note, turning down every dinner invitation from the widows at his local church and refusing to let even his old fire crew stay over more than one night at his tiny cabin outside town. Small talk with strangers felt like pulling teeth. His jaw was tight, the faint scar running from his left eyebrow to his jawline pulling a little when he grimaced at a dad who’d joked about setting his own grill on fire the week prior. The air reeked of charcoal, burnt hot dogs, and the sweet sticky cotton candy the kids were shoving in each other’s faces, and the bounce house behind him thudded so loud he could feel the vibration through the soles of his boots.
He was stacking free smoke detectors on the edge of the table when she walked up. Lila Hale, 49, ex-wife of the county commissioner who’d been indicted two weeks prior for embezzling $200k from the local park budget. Half the county was convinced she’d helped him cook the books, calling her a gold digger and a crook under their breath every time she walked into the grocery store. Rafe had known her since she was 22, waitressing at the tiny diner off the highway, bringing him extra cream in his coffee every morning when he was stationed there for a two-week fire stretch. She’d never been the type to take handouts, let alone steal from the county.
She was wearing a faded denim shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, sun freckles dusting her forearms, a smudge of dirt on the knee of her jeans from mucking out dog kennels at the animal shelter she worked at now. She leaned in to grab a smoke detector from the stack, her elbow knocking over a pile of fire safety pamphlets, and they both reached down to grab them at the same time. His calloused, scarred hand brushed hers, and a jolt of static shock made both of them yank back fast. He held eye contact for three beats too long, the corner of his mouth twitching up when she huffed a quiet, embarrassed laugh. He could smell jasmine lotion and grilled hamburger smoke on her, hear the crunch of potato chips from the couple standing ten feet away, staring at them like they’d grown a second head.
Part of him screamed to walk away. He’d spent a decade building a routine that didn’t require relying on anyone else, and getting tangled up with the woman everyone in town was avoiding was the last thing he should be doing. He could already hear the gossip starting, the whispers that he was stupid for getting mixed up with a crook, that he was gonna get dragged into the mess too. But when she tucked a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, her cheeks pink from the 83-degree heat, he couldn’t bring himself to step back.
He gestured toward the food line, ignoring the side eyes from the group of county employees standing by the grill, and offered to buy her a lemonade. She hesitated for half a second, then nodded, falling into step beside him. Their shoulders brushed every few steps, and he didn’t shift away. He bought her a lemonade and a pulled pork sandwich, and they walked to the far end of the parking lot, sitting on the tailgate of his beat-up 2006 Ford F-150, away from the prying eyes of the crowd.
She told him she’d left her ex three months before the indictment came down, had no idea he was stealing, had spent the last two weeks living in a rented trailer outside town because no one would rent her a house in the city limits. She laughed when he told her about the time he’d accidentally set his own fire retardant-coated hat on fire during a prescribed burn, leaning in a little so she could hear him over the noise of the fair, her knee pressing solidly against his. The rough fabric of her jeans rubbed against his, and he could feel the heat of her leg through his own pants, his chest tight in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
He didn’t care about the gossip. Didn’t care that half the town would talk about him for weeks for sitting with her. All he cared about was the way she smiled when she talked about the three rescue puppies she was fostering, the way her thumb brushed the back of his hand when he handed her a napkin to wipe barbecue sauce off her chin.
When the sun started to dip low in the sky, painting the snow-capped mountains pink and tangerine, he asked her if she wanted to come back to his cabin later. He’d baked a peach cobbler the night before, he said, had vanilla ice cream in the freezer that was starting to get freezer burn. She nodded, leaning in to wipe a smudge of barbecue sauce off his own chin with her thumb, her hand lingering on his jaw for two full seconds before she pulled away.
He reached into his front pocket, fumbling past a pack of gum and a folded up fire safety pamphlet for his extra truck key, and held it out to her. The distant wail of a siren from the highway faded into the warm summer air as he handed her his extra truck key, his calloused fingers brushing hers again on purpose this time.
