Russell “Rusty” Pirelli, 62, retired hotshot crew supervisor, dragged his scuffed work boots across the sticky linoleum of The Pine Tap just after 8 p.m. on a frigid October Wednesday. He’d skipped the costume contest memo, showed up in the same faded fire-red flannel he’d worn every week for three years, a white scar snaking across the knuckles of his left hand from a 2017 chainsaw kickback that almost cost him two fingers. He’d kept to himself for 12 years, ever since his wife left him for a Bend real estate broker and half the town brought her casseroles while he ate frozen burritos alone in his cabin 12 miles outside city limits. His biggest flaw? He still resented every last one of them for it, refused to make small talk longer than it took to order a draft and a basket of cheese curds.
He claimed the second stool from the end, nodded once at the bartender, and was halfway through his first sip when the stool two down scraped against the floor. He glanced over before he could stop himself. She was 58, if he had to guess, wearing a Velma costume that was just a little too tight across the shoulders, thick fake black glasses perched on her nose, a bobbed auburn wig that didn’t quite match her dark roots. She ordered a spiced cider, and when she reached across the gap between their stools for the communal bowl of salted peanuts, her knuckles brushed his scarred left hand. He flinched like he’d touched a hot stove. She smelled like lavender hand lotion and cinnamon, cut through the heavy stench of beer and fried food hanging over the bar.
“Sorry,” she said, grinning, her voice softer than he expected. “Didn’t realize anyone else was claiming the good snacks.” He grunted, pushed the bowl closer to her, told himself to turn back to the bar, to mind his own business, to avoid whatever this was before the whole town started whispering about how the hermit hotshot was finally chasing women. But he couldn’t look away. He noticed the faint smudge of ink on her wrist, realized she was the new librarian who’d moved to town three months prior, the one who’d called him when he’d returned a 1998 wildfire field guide two weeks overdue. He’d hung up on her before she could finish talking.
He felt hot, embarrassed, stared down at the ring of condensation forming around his beer glass. “You’re the librarian,” he said, before he could stop himself. She raised an eyebrow, took a sip of her cider, and leaned in a little closer, close enough that he could feel the heat off her shoulder through his flannel. “Guilty. You’re the guy who owes me 70 cents in late fees. I almost sent a collections notice.” Her laugh was warm, no edge to it, no hint of the judgment he’d spent 12 years bracing for. He found himself telling her about the field guide, about the time he’d gotten stuck on a fire line outside Ashland for three days and had used the book to prop up a broken radio antenna. She leaned in further, her elbow brushing his bicep when she gestured to his knuckles, asked him how he’d gotten the scar.
He told her the story, about the rookie who’d stepped in front of him mid-cut, about the 12 stitches he’d gotten in the back of an ambulance, about how he’d still made it back to the fire line 18 hours later. When he finished, she reached out, paused for half a second to make sure he was okay with it, then ran her index finger lightly across the raised scar tissue. The touch sent a jolt up his arm, made his chest tight. He told himself he should pull away, that by morning half the town would know they’d been talking, that he’d have to hear about it from the grocery store clerk and the gas station attendant for months. But he didn’t move.
The bartender announced the costume contest results a few minutes later. She won first place, got a $50 bar tab and a cheap plastic trophy shaped like a ghost. She held it up, winked at him, and when she sat back down, her knee brushed his under the bar. “I bought a bunch of bad 80s slasher flicks from the thrift store last week,” she said, not looking away from his eyes, the orange neon sign behind the bar glinting off her fake glasses. “I don’t have anyone to watch them with. You wanna come over?”
Rusty froze for a full ten seconds. He thought about the empty cabin waiting for him, about the frozen burrito in his freezer, about the way he’d spent every night for 12 years alone, convinced no one in this town would ever see him as anything other than the guy his wife left. He thought about the lavender lotion, about the way she’d laughed at his stupid fire line story, about how she hadn’t mentioned his ex once, hadn’t asked about the gossip. He nodded.
He paid his tab, held the door open for her when they walked out. A gust of frigid wind hit them as soon as they stepped onto the sidewalk, blowing her auburn wig askew, half off her head. She yelped, grabbing for it, and Rusty laughed, a loud, rough laugh he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in years. He adjusted the wig for her, his fingers brushing the soft hair at her temple, and when they walked to his beat up 2006 Ford F150, she laced her fingers through his scarred left hand, her palm warm against his. He unlocked the passenger door, held it open for her, and climbed into the driver’s seat, the cheap plastic ghost trophy sitting steady in the cup holder between them.
