Manny Rios, 62, retired air traffic controller, had spent the last eight years perfecting the art of ducking small town social events. He’d lost his wife to ovarian cancer three months after he’d cashed out his federal pension, moved from El Paso to this damp, pine-scented stretch of Oregon coast to rebuild vintage small plane engines in his garage and bother exactly no one. His biggest flaw, his college-aged granddaughter liked to tease, was that he treated casual human connection like a near-miss on the runway: something to be avoided at all costs, no exceptions. He’d only showed up to the fire department fundraiser beer garden that Saturday because his next door neighbor had fed his tabby for two weeks while he’d flown to Phoenix for graduation, and he owed her.
He stood propped against a cedar fence post 20 feet from the nearest group of people, holding an IPA that was colder than the ocean breeze blowing off the water, his faded gray FAA ball cap pulled low enough to block eye contact with anyone who might try to strike up a conversation. The air smelled like fried catfish, pine resin, and warm stone fruit pie crust, a bluegrass trio plunked through a cover of “Folsom Prison Blues” off to his left, and kids screamed as they chased each other through the grass with popsicles dripping down their wrists. He’d stayed 45 minutes, long enough to drop a hundred dollars in the donation bucket, and was just about to slip out when he spotted the pie booth. His wife had baked peach pie every Sunday for 34 years of marriage. He hadn’t had a slice that tasted right since she died.
He crossed the grass, boots crunching over scattered clover, and leaned against the edge of the folding table. The woman running the booth had streaks of silver running through her chestnut braid, freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, and a faded forest service t-shirt stretched across her shoulders that read I FOUGHT FIRE AND FIRE LOST, a faint white scar slicing across the knuckle of her left index finger. She looked up from wiping down a pie tin, and held eye contact for two full beats longer than polite, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. He reached for the last peach pie at the exact same time she did.
Their hands brushed. Hers was calloused, warm, smelled like lavender soap and campfire smoke, and Manny felt a jolt run up his arm that he hadn’t felt since he was 19 and asking his wife to prom. He pulled his hand back like he’d touched a hot engine block, his ears burning, and for half a second he felt sick with himself, like he was betraying the memory of the woman he’d spent most of his life with.
“Peach is the first to go every time,” she said, picking up the pie and sliding it across the table toward him, her forearm brushing his as she leaned in. She was close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, the tiny laugh lines fanned out at their corners. “I don’t blame you for diving for it. I’m Lorna. I run the tree trimming service on the north end of town, used to fight wildfires for the service back in the 90s.”
“Manny,” he said, fumbling for his wallet, his throat tighter than it had been in years. “Retired air traffic control. Rebuild plane engines in my garage these days.”
Her eyes lit up. “My dad did that, up until he died seven years ago. Had a hanger out at the municipal airport, still has a half-finished 1960 Cessna sitting in there I haven’t had the heart to get rid of.” She nodded at the empty spot by the fence he’d been occupying a minute earlier. “Saw you standing over there avoiding everyone. Most guys your age are camped out by the raffle table begging to win the new Stihl chainsaw. You got something against power tools?”
He laughed, a real one, the kind that made his sides ache a little. “Got three chainsaws already. Don’t need another.”
They talked for 22 minutes, he counted, time passing slower than it had in years. He forgot he was supposed to leave early, forgot he’d told himself he’d never even consider talking to another woman like this, forgot the list of rules he’d written for himself after his wife died. The crowd thinned out around them, the bluegrass band packed up their instruments, and she wiped her hands on the jeans she had rolled up to her calves, a flannel shirt tied around her waist.
“I’m closing up here in five,” she said, twisting the end of her braid like she was a little nervous, like she hadn’t asked anyone to do this in a long time. “Wanna walk down to the jetty? Watch the sunset. I got a blanket in the back of my truck, and I brought an extra six pack of that IPA you’re drinking.”
Manny hesitated. He thought about the photo of his wife taped to his fridge, the promise he’d made to himself that he’d be alone for the rest of his life, that anything else was disrespectful. But then he looked at Lorna, at the scar on her knuckle, at the way she was biting the corner of her lip waiting for his answer, and he nodded.
The rocks of the jetty were still warm from the day’s sun under their boots, the ocean stretched out in front of them streaked pink and tangerine as the sun dipped low. They sat down on the blanket she pulled from her truck, their shoulders pressing together when she leaned back on her hands, and she told him about losing her partner, a fellow firefighter, in a 2017 blaze outside of Bend, how she’d moved to the coast after that because she couldn’t stand the smell of wildfire smoke for more than five minutes without panicking. He told her about his wife, about the Sunday pies, about how he’d thought he’d never feel anything but empty again after she was gone.
The sun slipped below the horizon, the sky turning deep purple, the breeze picking up just enough to make him shiver. She shifted closer to him, and laced her fingers through his, her calloused knuckles fitting perfectly against the rough spots on his hands from turning wrenches all day. He didn’t pull away. A wave crashed against the rocks below them, sending a fine, cold mist up that settled on his cheeks, and he turned to look at her. She was already looking at him, and he leaned in, slow, no rush, his hand coming up to cup the side of her face.
