Rusty Thorne, 61, retired U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, has stood in the same VFW fish fry line every Thursday for 17 years. He wears the same faded green flannel, scuffed work boots, and scowl that says he doesn’t want to talk about anything more controversial than last week’s Grizzlies loss. The grudge he carries against his ex-wife, who left him for a traveling crane salesman in 2006, sits heavy in his chest most days, enough that he’s turned down every dinner invite, every set-up, every casual advance from the widows and divorcees that drift through the VFW hall. He’s convinced he’s better off alone in his off-grid cabin, no one to nag him about leaving firewood by the door, no one to complain about his 2 a.m. hikes up the ridge to check meteor showers.
The rain picks up as he waits for his catfish, cold droplets blowing under the awning to dot the back of his neck. He steps back to avoid a puddle oozing with runoff and fryer grease, and his shoulder slams into someone behind him. A half-full jar of pickled jalapeños clinks against his boot, and he turns to apologize, the retort dying on his tongue when he meets her eyes. She’s 58, he guesses, dark wavy hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, a tooled leather belt slung low on her hips with a polished fire axe belt buckle glinting under the string lights. She’s the owner of the empanada truck parked at the edge of the lot, the one the old guard at the VFW has been bitching about for three weeks, ever since the county passed that ordinance allowing food trucks outside non-profit events. Half the regulars have threatened to boycott the fish fry if she’s allowed to stay, calling her an outsider leeching off their fundraising proceeds.
She laughs, warm and rough, like she’s spent years yelling over fire engine engines, and picks the jar up off the ground, wiping the label on her jeans. “No harm done. I should’ve known better than to stand behind a guy who looks like he’s got a one-track mind for fried catfish.” All the tables under the awning are soaked through except for one spot next to him, so she sits, her knee brushing his under the table when she shifts to avoid a drip from the awning above. She doesn’t move away. He can smell roasted corn and chipotle and coconut shampoo on her, a sharp contrast to the grease and beer and sawdust scent he’s surrounded by most days. She passes him a beef empanada across the table, her calloused fingers brushing his when he takes it, and he has to stop himself from flinching, from pulling back like he’s been burned. No one has touched him on purpose, outside of a handshake from a VFW buddy, in three years.
They talk for an hour, the rain drumming so loud on the metal awning they have to lean in close to hear each other, their faces inches apart. She says her name is Elara, she moved to Missoula three months prior from Tucson, where she spent 22 years as a wildland firefighter, moved out here to be close to her son, who’s on a hotshot crew based out of Lolo. The axe buckle was a Christmas gift from him, she says, tapping it with one finger, holding his gaze steady when she says he swears it’ll keep her from getting lost on the backcountry roads. He tells her about his 12 years manning the fire lookout on Lolo Peak, about the time he watched a black bear climb three flights of stairs to steal his peanut butter sandwich off the porch of the tower. She laughs so hard a snort comes out, and he feels something tight in his chest loosen, something he thought was permanently stuck shut.
He’s torn. Half of him wants to make an excuse, grab his catfish, drive back to his quiet cabin, forget her name, forget how warm her knee is pressed against his under the table, forget the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs. He’s spent 17 years telling himself any connection is just going to end in heartbreak, that letting someone in is just asking for them to leave. The other half of him wants to ask her if she wants to get a beer after the fish fry, wants to ask her if she’s ever hiked the trail up to the old abandoned lookout, wants to stop going home to an empty cabin every night. His buddies are staring from the other end of the table, snickering, and he knows they’ll give him hell for fraternizing with the “outsider food truck lady” for weeks.
She leans in closer, so her shoulder is pressed against his, and brushes a crumb of fried catfish off his flannel sleeve, her fingers lingering on his forearm for half a second. “I’ve been trying to find someone to show me that trail up to the old lookout,” she says, quiet enough no one else can hear. “I don’t want to get lost up there alone. You know the area better than anyone, I bet.” He hesitates for a full ten seconds, the old bitter part of him screaming to say no, to run, to go back to the safe, lonely life he’s built. He looks at her, at the silver streaks in her hair, the scar on her left cheek from a falling branch during a 2019 fire outside Tucson, the way she’s holding his gaze like she knows exactly what he’s fighting with in his head. He says yes.
They agree to meet at the trailhead at 8 a.m. Saturday, pack a lunch, bring waterproof hiking boots. He walks her to her truck after the fish fry, the rain slowed to a soft drizzle, the streetlights glowing gold through the mist. She leans in to hug him goodbye, her chest pressed against his, he can feel her heart beating fast through her flannel shirt, and he doesn’t pull away. He wraps one arm around her back, slow, like he’s afraid he’ll break something, and she squeezes him tighter for a beat before letting go.
He drives home that night, Johnny Cash playing low on the radio, the leftover empanada she gave him sitting on the passenger seat. He pulls into his driveway, cuts the engine, sits there for five minutes staring at the dark cabin. He realizes he doesn’t have any beer to bring on the hike, doesn’t have any snacks that aren’t peanut butter crackers and canned beans. He turns the truck back on, pulls out of the driveway, drives 12 miles back into town to the 24-hour grocery store, picks up a six pack of hazy IPA, a bag of salted caramel rice cakes, and a pack of strawberry Pop-Tarts he remembers girls liked back when he was in high school, just in case she has a sweet tooth. He tucks the Pop-Tarts into the pocket of his hiking pack when he gets home, makes sure the laces on his boots are tied tight, sets his alarm for 6:30 a.m.
