Rafe Mendez, 51, runs a one-man wildfire mitigation outfit out of a cramped workshop behind his house outside Bend, Oregon. His biggest flaw is that he’s spent the six years since his ex-wife moved to Portland actively avoiding any interaction that doesn’t involve invoices or brush clearing specs. He’d rather spend three days alone cutting fire breaks in the Deschutes National Forest than make small talk at a neighborhood potluck, and he’s convinced anyone under 40 is too plugged into their phones to have a conversation that doesn’t circle back to TikTok or overpriced cold brew.
He only showed up to the local volunteer fire department’s annual chili cookoff because his old captain left three voicemails threatening to dump a truckload of cedar slash on his driveway if he didn’t enter the brisket chili he’d won the contest with three years running. He’d planned to stay 20 minutes max, grab a beer, drop off his crockpot, and hightail it back home to his three hound dogs and a recorded college football game he’d saved to his DVR. He was leaning against the cinder block side of the station, half-empty IPA in one hand, paper bowl of chili in the other, staring at a patch of dandelions growing through the asphalt, when she sat down next to him.
She was his new next door neighbor, the one he’d only waved at twice from the cab of his work truck when he’d pulled out of his driveway at 6 a.m. He knew she worked at the cider press downtown, that her ex-husband owned the hardware store he bought all his chainsaw blades from, and that was it. She had smudges of pressed apple pulp on the cuff of her plaid flannel, a bee-patterned bandana holding back her mess of auburn hair, and she sat so close her denim-clad thigh brushed his when she shifted to set her own bowl of chili on the ground between their feet.
“Your chili’s the only reason I showed up,” she said, picking up an oyster cracker out of the bag between them and popping it in her mouth. Her voice was rough, like she spent half her day yelling over the roar of the cider press, and it cut clean through the twangy country music blaring from the station’s portable speakers. “You dropped a quart off on my porch when I moved in last month. Forgot to thank you. Tasted like you smoked the brisket for 12 hours over oak. Am I close?”
Rafe blinked, surprised he’d even remembered to drop the chili off. He’d done it half out of habit, half because the last neighbor who’d lived in that house had brought him fresh jam every Christmas. He nodded, and she laughed, and he noticed her eyes were hazel, flecked with the same green as the Ponderosa pines he spent most of his days around. He tensed up when she passed him the oyster cracker bag, her cold, cider-chilled fingers brushing his knuckles for half a second, a jolt running up his arm that he hadn’t felt in years.
His first instinct was to make an excuse to leave. She was 13 years younger than him, her ex was a guy he’d done business with for a decade, small town gossip traveled faster than a grass fire in August, and he’d spent too long building his quiet, predictable routine to blow it up over a pretty girl who laughed too loud. But then she started asking him about his work, leaning in when he explained how he mapped fire breaks to protect homes on the edge of the forest, actually listening instead of zoning out like most people did when he started talking about slope gradients and fuel load counts. She told him she’d watched him carry a fawn with a broken leg out of a recently cleared patch of woods the week before, that she’d been standing on her porch drinking coffee, and she’d thought it was the kind of thing most guys would have posted about for clout, but he hadn’t told a soul.
The emcee announced the contest winners over the speaker a few minutes later, and Rafe’s name got called for first place. The small crowd around them cheered, and she grabbed his upper arm to hug him, her warm chest pressing against his shoulder, the sweet smell of cinnamon and pine shampoo and hard cider wrapping around him. He didn’t pull away. She leaned in, her mouth so close to his ear he could feel her breath on his jaw, and said she had a jug of limited-edition pecan cider back at her house, that no one had to see them leave together if he didn’t want.
He hesitated for half a second, thinking about the gossip, about the list of stupid rules he’d made for himself after his divorce, about how long it had been since someone looked at him like he was more than just the quiet guy who cut down trees for a living. He nodded, grabbed his cheap plastic prize plaque off the table where the emcee had set it, and followed her to her beat-up Subaru covered in forest service and cider press stickers. She held the passenger door open for him, and when he climbed in, she reached across the center console to pluck a stray pine needle out of his hair, her thumb brushing his cheekbone soft as dandelion fluff. The car radio was playing a scratchy recording of Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’,” and he didn’t even glance at his own truck parked three spots over when she pulled out of the lot.
