Jax Tully, 61, retired wildland firefighter turned part-time firewood delivery outfitter, only showed up to the VFW Friday fish fry because his old crew chief Mike practically banged on his cabin door at 4 PM demanding he stop “hibernating like a damn bear with a grudge.” He’d spent the previous 6 hours splitting white oak for a senior center order, so he showed up in a faded 2018 fire crew hoodie, work boots caked with pine bark and mud, a faint scar snaking down the left side of his jaw pulled tight when he spotted half the town staring, already whispering about the poor widower who never left his property. He grabbed a can of Pabst from the cooler, leaned against the cinder block wall, and planned to slip out in 10 minutes tops.
The front door blew open hard, rain slicing in behind the woman who stumbled over the threshold. She grabbed his forearm to steady herself, cold fingers pressing through the thin cotton of his hoodie, a smudge of blue ink streaked across her knuckle, the sharp, soft scent of lavender and old paper wrapping around him before she even spoke. She apologized in a breathless laugh, hazel eyes flecked with green locking onto his for a beat too long, and he realized he hadn’t felt a woman’s touch that wasn’t a quick hug from his daughter in over 7 years. He mumbled that it was fine, shifted his weight, but didn’t step back. The linoleum under his boots was sticky with spilled root beer, the jukebox in the corner blared Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues,” and he spotted the silver “Librarian” name tag pinned to her thrifted cream wool sweater, a small chip in the plastic at the corner.
She was Marnie Cole, 48, the new town librarian who’d moved up from Chicago three months prior. He’d dropped a half cord of maple off at her rental cabin back in January, she’d left a jar of homemade peach jam on his truck bumper as a tip, he’d eaten the whole thing on toast over two weeks and never got around to thanking her. They stood a foot apart, shoulders brushing every time someone squeezed past to get to the fry line, and she told him she’d spent the afternoon dropping off large print mystery novels at the nursing home, got caught in the downpour walking from her car. He made a dumb joke about how if she kept leaving the heat cranked at her cabin like she had when he dropped off the wood, she’d blow through her entire winter budget by March, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, covered her mouth with her hand, cheeks turning pink.
The guilt hit him sharp, right in the chest, like a punch from Mike back when they were training new recruits. Elara had been gone 8 years, every person in town had made it clear it was “too soon” for him to see anyone, that any interest in another woman was a slap in the face to the memory of the wife he’d loved for 32 years. He’d bought into it for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to be curious about someone, to look forward to what they’d say next. He kept glancing at her lips, then looking away, his jaw tight, when she touched his forearm again, fingers light, when she told him she’d found a nest of baby bluebirds in the oak tree behind the library the week prior. The guilt faded a little, replaced by a warm hum low in his gut he’d thought was gone forever.
She asked him if he wanted to ditch the fish fry, get coffee at the little 24-hour diner on the edge of town, said the old guys were gearing up for Merle Haggard karaoke and she’d rather hear herself think. He hesitated for three full seconds, scanning the room, seeing Mike grinning at him from the fry line, seeing Mrs. Henderson from the church council staring daggers, already mentally drafting the gossip she’d spread at Sunday service. He thought of his kids, who’d told him just last Christmas that they didn’t mind if he “dated or whatever” but that they didn’t want to see anyone take Elara’s place. He thought of the quiet cabin he went home to every night, the silence so thick he could hear the pine trees swaying outside, the empty side of the bed he hadn’t touched since Elara died.
He nodded.
They walked out into the rain, now a soft mist that settled in his hair, he held the passenger door of his beat-up 2006 Ford F-150 open for her, she slid across the vinyl seat, still laughing about the guy in the VFW wearing a sequined cowboy hat who’d been practicing his Haggard impression by the bathroom. He got in the driver’s seat, turned the key, the heater kicked on immediately, blowing warm air that smelled like pine and the vanilla air freshener Elara had bought him for his 50th birthday, still hanging from the rearview. She leaned over to adjust the vent by her feet, her wavy brown hair brushing his cheek, that lavender and paper scent wrapping around him again. He pulled out of the parking lot, didn’t glance in the rearview mirror at the VFW lights fading behind him, didn’t care who’d seen them leave together.
