Emmett Thorne, 62, retired U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, had ducked into McGee’s Saloon to escape the chaos of the town’s 90s-themed pride parade spilling down Main Street. He’d spent the last three years avoiding every town “event” he dismissed as a cheap tourist cash grab, stubborn as the ponderosa pines rooted on the ridge outside his off-grid cabin, still carrying the quiet guilt that any small joy after his wife Clara’s 2015 cancer death was a betrayal. He’d grabbed the only empty booth in the back, cracked a cold Pabst, and was picking at a bag of salted peanuts when the booth’s bench dipped under someone else’s weight.
Marisol Ruiz, 58, owner of the town’s only used bookstore, had squeezed in to avoid a group of college kids in tie-dye flannel yelling the lyrics to a Jagged Little Pill deep cut. Her frayed denim jacket brushed the bare skin of Emmett’s forearm, and the scent of lavender laundry soap and aged pulp paper wrapped around him, sharp and warm, like the inside of the built-in bookshelf Clara had constructed for their first anniversary. He froze, eyes flicking down to the smudge of cobalt ink on her left wrist, then up to her face, where she was already watching him, one dark eyebrow arched.
“Sorry,” she said, raising her voice over the jukebox and the roar of the crowd outside, “all the other spots are taken. I won’t bother you long.” Her knee knocked his under the table when she shifted to flag the bartender, and Emmett’s throat went dry. He’d stared at Marisol from across the grocery store produce section half a dozen times over the last two years, had even wandered into her bookstore once to buy a replacement copy of the dog-eared Jack London collection Clara had left in the lookout tower before it burned in the 2020 Holiday Farm fire, but he’d never worked up the nerve to say more than a mumbled “thanks” when she rang him up.
He grunted a noncommittal response, took a long sip of beer, and stared at the scuffed wood wall behind her head, until she snickered. “You’re the guy who lives up on the ridge, right? The one who yells at hikers for stepping off the trail?” He flinched, then scowled. “They start wildfires. Half of them don’t even know how to put out a campfire properly.” She held up her hands, grinning, and the thick silver ring on her index finger caught the neon light from the beer sign above the bar. “Fair. I get it. I yell at people who fold the corners of book pages, so we’re both just grumpy protectors of things we care about.”
He found himself snorting a laugh before he could stop it. He made a snarky offhand comment about the parade being a waste of town resources, and her grin faded, sharp. “Proceeds go to the youth shelter for queer kids who get kicked out of their houses. I organize the book drive for them every year. You wanna complain about tourist traps, complain about the overpriced saltwater taffy shop on the corner, not the thing that keeps 17 kids off the street.” Emmett felt his ears burn. He’d had no idea. He mumbled an apology, stared at the condensation dripping down his beer bottle, the thick calluses on his palms rough from splitting firewood all winter.
They talked for an hour after that. She told him her dad had been a fire spotter too, back in the 80s, that she’d spent every summer of her childhood in a tower 45 minutes east of town, bringing stacks of library books up with her to pass the time between scans for smoke plumes. He told her about Clara, about how she’d loved 90s alt rock, how they’d driven across the country to see Alanis Morissette in 1996, how he’d avoided every song of hers until that day. She nodded, told him her husband had died in a fishing accident 10 years prior, that she’d spent five years refusing to even go out for coffee with anyone, convinced she was cheating on a man who wasn’t there anymore.
The bar cleared out as the parade wrapped up, the sun dipping low, painting the walls tangerine through the open door. A piece of crumpled rainbow confetti blew in, landed on the collar of her linen shirt, and Emmett reached out to brush it off before he could think better of it. His fingers grazed the warm skin of her collarbone, and neither of them pulled away for a beat, her dark eyes fixed on his, no smirk, no joke, just soft, unhurried recognition.
He didn’t overthink it when he asked her if she wanted to go get peach pie at the diner down the street, the one that made the flaky crust the same way Clara used to. She smiled, nodded, slid out of the booth, and held out a hand to help him up. His calloused palm wrapped around hers, warm and solid, as they walked out of the bar into the cool summer evening.
