Manny Ruiz, 62, retired wildland fire crew boss, has spent the eight years since his wife’s lung cancer death holed up in his two-room cabin outside Bend, Oregon, avoiding anything that counts as a community event. His only regular company is his three-legged coonhound, Buster, and the vintage dirt bikes he rebuilds in his garage for extra cash. He’d dragged himself to the county fire relief fundraiser at the downtown beer garden only because his old crew had threatened to show up at his cabin and drag him out by his work boots if he bailed.
He’s leaning against the side of the al pastor taco truck, sipping a hazy IPA that’s warmer than he’d like, his faded 2018 Camp Fire crew hoodie pulled tight against the slight June chill, when he spots her. Clara Marlow, 58, owner of the town’s only used bookstore, ex-wife of his old crew chief, Jake. Back when they’d all worked together 15 years prior, the unwritten rule was ironclad: you didn’t so much as look at the chief’s spouse wrong, even if everyone knew Jake and Clara were already sleeping in separate bedrooms and fighting about his time on the line. Manny had spent three years avoiding eye contact with her whenever she dropped off donuts or cold Gatorade at the station, even when she’d smile at him and ask about his mom’s tamale recipe he’d mentioned once in passing.
She spots him before he can duck behind the taco truck. She waves, her silver hoop earrings catching the golden hour sun, and walks over, her strappy leather sandals kicking up a little dust on the gravel. She’s wearing a faded blue linen shirt unbuttoned one button too low, the edge of a tiny silver sunflower tattoo peeking out over her collarbone, salt crusted on the rim of the frozen margarita in her hand. She stands close enough when she stops that he can smell coconut sunscreen and the sharp, sweet tang of lime on her breath, her elbow brushing his bicep when she leans in to yell over the noise of the crowd. “I thought you were hiding out in the woods forever, Ruiz,” she says, grinning, the corners of her eyes crinkling like she’s actually happy to see him.
They stand there talking for 45 minutes, the crowd swirling around them. He tells her about the dirt bike rebuild he’s working on, about Buster’s habit of stealing socks off the laundry line. She tells him about the new mystery section she just put in at the bookstore, about the teenage kid who comes in every Saturday to read old westerns for free. The whole time, there’s a little voice in the back of his head screaming that this is wrong, that the old crew code still applies, that he’s betraying Jake even though Jake moved to Alaska five years ago and hasn’t talked to any of them since. But he can’t make himself step away, can’t stop noticing the way she tucks a strand of dark, sun-streaked hair behind her ear when she’s thinking, the way her hand brushes his arm every time she laughs at one of his dumb fire crew stories.
He hesitates for three full seconds, the old rule ringing so loud in his ears he can barely hear the music. Then he takes her hand. Her palm is soft, a little sticky from the margarita salt, and she laces their fingers together for half a second before pulling him out to the dance area. She rests her left hand on his shoulder, his hand falls naturally to her waist, and he can feel the warmth of her skin through the thin linen of her shirt when she steps closer, her shoulder pressing to his chest. When she rests her head on his shoulder for a beat, her hair brushing his cheek, she smells like coconut and lime and the vanilla lotion she wears, and he realizes he hasn’t been this close to someone who wasn’t family since his wife died. “I always thought you were the nicest guy on that crew,” she murmurs, so quiet only he can hear it. “Even when you tried to act all tough and scowly.” He huffs a laugh, his hand tightening a little on her waist. “I was scared Jake would bench me for the entire fire season if I so much as talked to you too long,” he admits. She pulls back to look at him, grinning, their faces only a few inches apart. “I knew it. I saw the way you’d run off to the truck whenever I showed up at the station.”
The song ends a minute later, but they don’t move, don’t let go of each other. The next song is faster, louder, and the crowd around them cheers. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, biting her lip a little like she’s nervous. “I’ve got a bottle of anejo tequila back at my apartment above the bookstore,” she says. “And a stack of old western paperbacks I think you’d like. Wanna come over?”
He doesn’t even hesitate, just nods, lacing their fingers together when she grabs his hand. They walk out of the beer garden together, his hand brushing the small of her back when they step off the curb, the cool evening air smelling like pine and fried dough and the faint smell of wood smoke from a fire pit down the street. He doesn’t even think about the old crew code, doesn’t think about the eight years he spent hiding out in the woods, doesn’t think about anything except the way her hand fits in his, the sound of her laughing when he tells her about the time Buster stole a whole rotisserie chicken off his kitchen counter.
