Ronan Marlow, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, had grumbled the entire drive from his off-grid cabin outside Grass Valley to the town’s annual summer street fair. His old crew buddy Jesse had begged, said the whole team was meeting up to trade war stories from the 2018 Camp Fire, and Ronan hadn’t had the heart to say no. He hated crowds, hated the way strangers stared at the scar that sliced from his left eyebrow to his jawline from a falling cedar branch, hated the small town gossip that had painted him as a reclusive hermit ever since his wife left him 12 years prior. He’d planned to stay 45 minutes max, grab one cold IPA, and bolt back to the quiet of his property where the only noise was wind through pine boughs and the creak of the retired fire tower he’d restored in his backyard.
He stammered out an apology, offered to buy her a new drink, offered to pay for her shirt, offered to do just about anything to make up for being such a clumsy ass. She waved off the shirt, said it was thrifted anyway, and followed him to the pop-up beer tent. When he passed her a cold hazy IPA, their knuckles brushed. He felt a jolt go up his arm, the kind he used to get when lightning struck close to his fire tower. He stepped back automatically, used to keeping three feet of space between himself and everyone else, but she leaned in a fraction, closing the gap, her shoulder brushing his bicep as she nodded toward the food truck row.
They talked for an hour, standing so close he could smell lavender lotion over the heavy scent of fried oreos and cut grass. He told her about the fire tower, about the way you could see the entire valley light up gold at sunrise from the top, about the time he’d spent three weeks alone in the tower during the 2021 Dixie Fire, only talking to dispatch once an hour over a crackling radio. She told him about the library’s after-school reading program for foster kids, about how her granddaughter was obsessed with dinosaur picture books, about how she’d never been camping in her life. He caught himself leaning in when she talked, his elbows propped on the splintered wooden picnic table, his eyes fixed on the small crinkle at the corner of her eye when she smiled. He hated how badly he wanted to keep talking to her, hated that he’d spent 12 years shutting everyone out for no good reason, the disgust at his own self-imposed isolation warring with the warm, giddy buzz he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager.
He noticed people staring. The town had written him off as a permanent bachelor, had written Elara off as the quiet new widow who kept to herself. The thrill of breaking that unspoken taboo made his chest feel tight, in a good way. She grabbed a fried oreo from a passing food cart, held it out to him, her fingers dusted with powdered sugar. He took a bite, his lips brushing her fingertips. Neither of them pulled away. They held eye contact for three full beats, the noise of the fair fading to a low hum in the background. She wiped a smudge of powdered sugar off the corner of his mouth with her thumb, her touch light, intentional.
