Manny Rocha, 59, retired wildland fire crew foreman, showed up to the subdivision block party only because his next-door buddy Tom bribed him with a case of his favorite hazy IPA. He’d skipped every one for the last 12 years, mostly to avoid Elara Voss, the woman three houses down who’d reported his half-restored 1972 F-150 as abandoned back when he was stuck on a six-week fire in Idaho. He’d come home to a bright orange impound notice taped to his windshield, dropped $800 to get the truck back, and had barely said two words to her since. His only other plan for the night was sanding the frame of a 1989 Kawasaki KLR he was rebuilding for his grandson, so the beer felt like a fair trade, even if he planned to duck out before the fireworks started.
He was leaning against the fence by the taco truck, halfway through his second beer, when he heard a yelp. He turned just in time to catch Elara as she tripped over a kid’s neon scooter half-buried in the grass, her pitcher of horchata sloshing over the edge onto his work boot, his beer spilling a pale golden streak down the front of her cream linen shirt. She steadied herself on his bicep, her fingers warm through the thin cotton of his old fire department tee, and he froze for half a second, expecting a snippy apology, the same tight-lipped irritation he’d seen on her face every time they crossed paths. Instead, she laughed, a low, throaty sound that cut through the noise of the crowd. “I swear I’m not usually this much of a disaster,” she said, brushing a strand of chestnut hair streaked with silver out of her face. “That scooter’s been a menace all week.”
He reached for the crumpled napkin in his pocket automatically, dabbing at the wet spot on her shirt before he thought better of it. His knuckles grazed the soft skin of her collarbone, and she sucked in a small breath, her gaze locking with his for three long beats. He’d never looked at her that close before. He’d always written her off as a stuck-up herbalist who hated anything messy, hated the sound of his power tools running on weekends, hated him for leaving his truck parked on the street. But her eyes were warm, hazel, flecked with green, crinkled at the corners like she smiled a lot more than he ever noticed. “I’m sorry about your shirt,” he said, suddenly awkward, shoving the napkin back in his pocket. “And your horchata.”
She waved it off, leaning against the fence next to him, close enough that he could smell jasmine and pine on her, not the fancy, cloying perfume he’d expected. “I’ve had worse. For what it’s worth, I’ve been meaning to apologize to you for years about that truck.” He blinked, his jaw tightening. He’d rehearsed the argument he’d have with her about that truck a hundred times, but he’d never expected her to bring it up first. “I was newly divorced back then,” she said, kicking at a clump of grass with her sandal. “My son was 16, dumb as a post, kept sneaking over to your property trying to hotwire that truck to take it up the mountain. I was terrified he’d crash it, or you’d come home and catch him and call the cops. I didn’t know how to talk to you, you were always so quiet, always rushing off to a fire or to the hospital to see your wife. I didn’t want to add more stress to your plate. The impound notice felt like the only way to get you to move it somewhere he couldn’t get to it.”
Manny stared at her, the grudge he’d carried for 12 years fizzling out faster than a spark in wet grass. He’d always assumed she’d called the city because she thought his truck was an eyesore, because she thought he was trash. He’d had no idea there was a kid involved, or that she’d known his wife was sick back then. “You could’ve left a note,” he said, but there’s no bite in it.
“I tried,” she said, laughing again. “I taped three to your front door. You never called me back. I figured you hated me.”
They ended up sitting on the tailgate of his dented 1998 Tacoma while the fireworks started, their shoulders pressed together, the low thud of the explosions vibrating through the metal under them. A group of teens ran past, yelling, and she shifted closer, her thigh pressing warm against his worn jeans, and he didn’t move away. He told her about the 2017 Gila National Forest blaze that messed up his left knee, the one that made him retire early, the way he missed the crew, missed the quiet of the woods at 3 a.m. after a fire was contained. She told him about her apothecary in downtown Flagstaff, about her son who just graduated from college in Portland, about how quiet her house was now that he was gone, how the sound of his power tools on weekends was the only thing that made the silence feel less heavy.
When the last firework faded, the sky streaked pink and orange, she pulled a small glass jar out of her canvas bag and handed it to him. It was cool against his palm, labeled with her messy cursive handwriting, smelled like menthol and lavender. “I noticed you limping earlier when you carried that cooler for Mrs. Henderson,” she said. “Arnica rub, from my garden. Works better than that Icy Hot I see you tossing in your trash can every week.” He blinked, heat rising up his neck. He had no idea she paid that much attention to him.
He asked her if she wanted to come over the next day, see the F-150 he finally finished restoring last month, take it for a drive up to the San Francisco Peaks overlook if she had time. She nodded, tucking that same strand of hair behind her ear, and her thumb brushed his wrist when she passed him a crumpled receipt with her number scrawled on the back. “I’ll bring empanadas,” she said. “The pork ones, I make them from scratch.”
He watched her walk to her house, the glow of the streetlight gilding the edge of her yellow sundress, and realized he’d wasted 12 years being mad over nothing.
