Marlon Rios, 53, retired wildland fire crew boss, leaned against the splintered wooden rail of the Central Oregon harvest festival beer tent, boots planted in a patch of mud dotted with crushed corn husks. He’d driven into town only for the barrel-aged IPA the local brewery tapped once a year, not for the line dancing or pie eating contests or small talk with neighbors he barely knew. Eight years prior, when his wife walked out, he’d retreated to his 20-acre plot 12 miles up the mountain, fixing vintage snowmobiles for tourist cash and talking to more stray dogs than people these days. His biggest flaw, the one he’d never admit out loud, was that he’d convinced himself he didn’t deserve anything softer than pine smoke, cold beer, and the quiet of a winter snowstorm.
He was halfway through his second pint when he smelled jasmine and spiced cider, warm and sharp, right next to his ear. “I’d know that beat up oil-stained Carhartt anywhere.”
He turned, and there was Lila Hale, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the last person he expected to see in a town 300 miles from where they’d both grown up. She was 41 now, dark hair streaked with a single silver strand at the temple, wearing a flannel tied around her waist and scuffed hiking boots, holding a plastic cup of cider. She’d been 19 when he married her cousin, the kid who’d hung around the garage asking him questions about fire lines and backpacking trips while the rest of the family chattered about church potlucks. When the divorce happened, she’d been the only one who’d texted him, said she didn’t blame him for working the jobs that kept him gone, that her cousin had never wanted the kind of life he’d built.
He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he barely recognized. They talked for 45 minutes, her leaning in every time she spoke, his arm brushing hers when he reached for his beer, her hand grazing his wrist when she pointed out a kid tripping over a hay bale a few feet away. He found himself telling her about the 1998 Ski-Doo he was restoring for a client, about the pack of coyotes that hung around his property, about the way the mountain looked at sunrise when frost still crusted the pine needles. He didn’t mention the divorce, didn’t mention the nights he’d sat alone on his porch wondering if he’d ever feel like talking to someone again. The guilt was still there, niggling at the back of his brain, telling him this was wrong, that people would talk, that he’d just end up hurting her like he’d hurt his ex. But the desire was louder, warmer, the kind of quiet want he hadn’t felt in almost a decade.
When the festival started shutting down, tent lights flicking off one by one, she tilted her head up at him. “You gonna offer to drive me back to my rental, or am I gonna have to walk all the way up the hill in the cold?”
He nodded, grabbing his jacket off the rail, his hands shaking a little when he unlocked the door of his beat up Ford F-150. He turned the heater on full blast once they were inside, the old radio crackling to life with a Merle Haggard deep cut. They sat in the parking lot for a minute, distant festival sounds fading, the heater blowing warm air over their legs. She reached across the console, cold fingers wrapping around his calloused hand, and he didn’t pull away. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 19,” she said, quiet, like she was admitting something she’d been holding onto for years. “I didn’t come here for the training. I came here to see if you were as good a guy as I remembered.”
He hesitated for half a second, the guilt screaming in his head, and then he leaned over the console and kissed her. Her lips were cold from the cider, her hand coming up to cup the side of his face, the faint smell of jasmine still clinging to her hair. He didn’t think about the gossip, didn’t think about his ex, didn’t think about all the reasons he’d spent 8 years pushing people away. All he thought about was the heat of her hand on his face, the sound of Merle Haggard singing about rambling men, the way the moon was shining through the truck window onto her cheek.
He pulled away first, breathing a little hard, and she smiled at him, no pressure, no expectation. “Your place is further up the mountain, right?” she said, running her thumb across the back of his hand.
He nodded, turning the key in the ignition, the truck rumbling to life. He drove slow up the rutted dirt road, one hand on the wheel, the other still holding hers. When they pulled into his driveway, the porch light was on, the glow from the wood stove visible through the front window. He got out first, walked around to her side of the truck, opened the door for her, and held out his hand. She took it, her fingers lacing through his, and he led her up the porch steps, crusted snow crunching under their boots.
