Rudy Galvan, 62, retired wildland fire crew coordinator, leaned against the splintered wooden frame of the cider tent at the Deschutes County summer beer fest, boots crunching over discarded peanut shells. He’d ducked away from his old crew ten minutes earlier, sick of them badgering him to give the recently divorced elementary school teacher their friend had brought a chance. Eight years after Carol’s sudden heart attack, he still treated any romantic overture like a spark too close to dry brush—too easy to let it burn through the quiet, predictable life he’d built to avoid feeling anything too sharp. A faded scar snaked up his left forearm from the 2017 Eagle Creek fire, a souvenir of the last time he’d let himself rush headfirst into something dangerous.
The air smelled like pine, smoked brisket, and hoppy IPA, the low twang of a bluegrass band thrumming from the main stage. He was halfway through his first hard cider when a woman’s voice, warm and familiar, cut through the noise. “Rudy Galvan? I’d know that beat up leather work boot in a crowd of a thousand.”
He looked up, and for half a second he didn’t place her. She was 48, soft around the hips, sun-streaked brown braid slung over one shoulder, laugh lines fanning out from hazel eyes when she smiled. Then he saw the tiny scar above her left eyebrow, from the time she’d fallen off his trampoline when she was 16, babysitting his two boys. Lila Marlow, Carol’s cousin’s kid, the one he’d driven to the ER that night, the one he’d sent $20 to every birthday through college. She’d moved back to Bend three months earlier to open a small animal vet clinic, he’d heard, but he’d avoided running into her, scared any mention of Carol would yank up the grief he’d buried so deep.
She leaned in to hug him, and his whole body tensed when her hip pressed to his, the soft fabric of her linen shirt brushing his rolled-up flannel sleeve. She smelled like lavender and vetiver, no trace of the cherry Kool-Aid and bubble gum she’d reeked of as a teen. “I tried to stop by your place last week to drop off a jar of my grandma’s peach jam, but your dog barked so loud I thought he’d break a window,” she said, leaning close enough that her breath tickled his ear over the music. He caught himself staring at the curve of her mouth, and snapped his eyes away, heat crawling up his neck. It felt wrong, dirty almost, looking at her like that. He’d changed her diaper once, for Christ’s sake, when her mom had a stomach bug and Carol was stuck at work.
They ended up drifting toward the brisket food truck line together, Lila chattering about the three-legged cat she’d adopted the week prior, the way half her clients were retired guys who brought their hunting dogs in with homemade jerky for the staff. Every time she leaned in to talk, her arm brushed his, every time she laughed, she held eye contact a beat longer than felt strictly platonic. When they both reached for the same stack of napkins on the food truck counter, their fingers touched, and Rudy felt a jolt go straight up his arm, like grabbing a live wire. He pulled his hand back fast, like he’d been burned, and Lila grinned, like she knew exactly what she’d done.
They sat at a splintered picnic table on the edge of the fairgrounds, far enough from the crowd that they didn’t have to yell anymore. The sun was dipping low now, painting the pine trees pink and orange, the bluegrass band switching to slow, waltz-tempo tracks. Lila bit into her brisket sandwich, sauce smudging the corner of her mouth, and Rudy had to fight the urge to wipe it off with his thumb. “Carol always said you were the most stubborn man alive,” she said out of nowhere, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Said you’d hole up in that house of yours forever before you’d admit you were lonely.”
Rudy’s throat went tight. No one had talked about Carol like that to him in years, like she was a real person who joked and complained, not just a framed photo on his mantel. “I’m not lonely,” he said, even though it was a lie, even though most nights he talked to his dog more than any other living person.
Lila rolled her eyes, reached across the table, and rested her hand lightly on his scarred forearm. Her palm was warm, calloused at the fingertips from handling animals all day. “You’re a terrible liar, Rudy. I know you still make her pecan pie every year on her birthday. I know you sleep on her side of the bed half the time because it still smells like her perfume. You don’t have to punish yourself for being alive, you know?”
He didn’t pull away. He stared at her hand on his arm, then up at her face, and for the first time all night, he didn’t see the lanky teen with neon pink hair who’d eaten all his Doritos while she babysat. He saw a woman who knew the worst parts of him, who didn’t expect him to be anyone other than who he was, who looked at him like she wanted him, too. The guilt that had been coiled in his chest all evening loosened, just a little. Carol would have called him an idiot for moping around for eight years, he knew that. She would have shoved him out the door and told him to have fun for once.
He finished his cider, wiped his hands on his jeans. “I got a bottle of that peach pie bourbon she used to love stashed at my place. Haven’t opened it yet. Figured I was saving it for something.” He paused, held her eye contact, let his thumb brush the back of her hand where it rested on his arm. “You wanna come over and help me test it?”
Lila’s smile widened, slow and warm. She stood up, slung her canvas bag over her shoulder, and held out her hand. He took it, calloused palm fitting against hers like they’d been made to fit. He kept his hand resting lightly on the small of her back as they walked through the crowd, past his old fire crew who hooted and waved when they saw him, past the cider tent where he’d been standing alone an hour earlier.
The cool evening air hit his face as they stepped off the fairgrounds, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel like he was waiting for something to end.
