Manny Rocha, 62, retired wildland firefighter crew lead, had spent the last seven years hitting the Deschutes County Fair alone every August. He didn’t bother with the carnival rides or the 4-H barns, just showed up for the draft horse pull, a tradition he’d kept alive after his wife passed from ovarian cancer in 2016. He usually avoided the vendor row entirely, hated the crowds and the overpriced kitsch, but his stomach was growling loud enough to cut through the bluegrass band’s set so he’d swung into the line for pulled pork, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his faded fire department hoodie. His biggest flaw, one he’d never been able to shake, was carrying guilt he didn’t earn, isolating himself to avoid confronting mistakes he’d never actually made.
The line shifted hard when a group of teens sprinted past chasing a runaway cotton candy cart, and Manny stumbled into the edge of the honey booth next to the food stand, knocking a quart jar of wildflower honey off the wooden counter. He caught it mid-fall, his scarred, calloused palm slapping against the cool, sticky hand of the woman running the booth. He froze when he looked up. It was Clara Bennett, ex-wife of his former crewmate Jake, the man who’d been crushed by a falling ponderosa pine on a fire Manny had led back in 2013, left with a permanent limp that forced him to retire early. Manny hadn’t spoken to her in a decade, had gone out of his way to avoid her and Jake both, convinced the accident was his fault, that he’d missed the warning signs of the weak tree.
She didn’t yank her hand away right away, just held his gaze, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a smirk that made the laugh lines around her hazel eyes crinkle. “Took you long enough to stop by. I see you tramping past my hives every Saturday morning like you’re scared the bees will tattle on you for trespassing.” Her voice was low, rough around the edges from years of working outdoors, and she smelled like beeswax, clover, and a faint hint of vanilla perfume that cut through the fair’s thick fog of fried dough and diesel fumes. She finally pulled her hand back to take the jar from him, and when a group of kids darted between them a second later, she grabbed his bicep to steady herself, her fingers pressing directly into the thick, raised scar he’d gotten from that same 2013 fire.
He should have stepped back. Should have mumbled an apology and vanished back into the crowd before he said something stupid, before he let himself notice the streaks of silver in her dark braid, the faint bee sting scar on her left wrist, the way her flannel shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show a sliver of sunburnt skin at her collarbone. He’d spent 10 years telling himself he had no right to even look at her, that any interest he’d ever felt in her, even after she and Jake divorced five years prior, was a betrayal of the man he’d failed. The guilt coiled tight in his chest, sharp and familiar, and he opened his mouth to leave.
She must have seen it on his face, because she leaned in closer, close enough that her shoulder brushed his, no space left between them when a group of fairgoers pushed past. “Jake told me the truth, you know. Two years after we split. He cut his own safety harness to grab that teen hiker who wandered into the fire line. You didn’t do anything wrong. He’s been trying to tell you that for years, but you keep running.” Manny’s throat went dry. He’d spent a decade replaying that day in his head, convinced he’d messed up the safety sweep, that he was the reason Jake would never hike or fight fires again. The weight he’d been carrying for 10 years lifted so fast he felt lightheaded.
She slid the jar of honey across the counter to him, no charge, and tapped the label with a fingernail. “This batch is from the hives right by your cabin. Tastes like pine and wild blackberry. If you’re not too busy running from me, you can come over tomorrow afternoon, watch me extract it. I’ve got cold IPA in the fridge, porch faces the sunset. No one else around.”
Manny stared at her for a long second, then fumbled for a crumpled napkin in his pocket, scribbled his cell number on it with the broken pencil he kept in his hoodie. He slid it across the counter to her, his fingers brushing hers again, this time he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. He grabbed his pulled pork from the food stand a minute later, the honey jar tucked under his arm, and started walking toward the draft horse pull arena.
He could feel her eyes on his back as he walked, so he paused halfway across the fairgrounds, turned around. She was still leaning against the booth edge, twirling the napkin between her fingers, grinning like she knew he’d turn. He lifted the honey jar in a small toast, then turned and kept walking, the warm weight of the glass pressed against his side, the sound of the bluegrass band swelling louder as he got closer to the arena.
