Ron Marquez, 62, retired forest fire lookout, spent the first three hours of the county fire department’s annual cookoff avoiding small talk. He’d manned the chili station every year since he stepped down from the tower on Saddleback Mountain three years prior, his calloused hands stained red with tomato paste and cayenne, sun spots freckling the forearms he’d once used to haul 50 pound hoses up 80 foot ladders. His biggest flaw, one he’d refused to acknowledge for the eight years since his wife Diane passed, was that he’d walled himself off from any new connection that felt even a little like betrayal. He still wore his thin gold wedding band on his left hand, still bought Diane’s favorite peach pie every Sunday even though he hated peaches, still turned down every set up his sister tried to arrange.
The first time he saw Lila Carter that afternoon, he almost didn’t recognize her. She’d been 14 when she started babysitting his son Jake, a scrawny kid with braces who smelled like bubble gum and softball glove leather, who’d lived two houses down from him and Diane for 12 years before moving to Phoenix to be a travel nurse. She was 48 now, back in town to care for her dad after his stroke, her auburn hair streaked with a single silver strand above her left ear, wearing cutoff denim shorts and a faded 2018 Chris Stapleton tour tee, sun glinting off the small silver nose ring she’d gotten at 17 that Ron had once lectured her about getting without her dad’s permission.
She walked up to the chili station, her boots kicking up small clouds of dust, and leaned across the folding table, her elbow brushing his bicep when she reached for a sample cup. The scent of coconut sunscreen and peppermint lip balm wrapped around him, sharp and warm, and he fumbled the ladle he was holding, splashing a drop of chili on his hoodie. She laughed, the same throaty snort she’d had as a kid, and wiped the drop off with the edge of her napkin, her fingers brushing the fabric over his chest for half a second longer than necessary. “Still make it so spicy it’ll clear your sinuses for a week?” she said, nodding at the pot, her dark eyes holding his, no trace of the shy teen he remembered.
He grunted, passing her a pack of saltine crackers, trying to ignore the hum under his skin that he hadn’t felt since the first time he’d kissed Diane back in 1983. They talked for 20 minutes, her leaning against the table, her knee brushing his every time someone squeezed past to get a beer, him leaning in a little closer every time she told a story about working the COVID ward in Phoenix, her voice tight when she talked about how many people she’d watched die alone. When she mentioned she’d been trying to fix the gutters on her dad’s cabin for two weeks and kept falling off the ladder, he offered to come over the next Saturday before he even thought about it.
He showed up at 10 a.m. the next day, tool belt slung over his shoulder, a six pack of his favorite IPA in a cooler, his palms sweaty for the first time since he’d fought the 2017 Saddleback fire that burned 3000 acres. She met him on the porch, wearing a gray tank top and steel toed work boots, smudges of dirt on her cheek and her jaw, holding a mug of black coffee. They worked for three hours, him up on the ladder, her handing him nails and caulk tubes, their fingers brushing every time she passed him something, her standing close enough that he could smell that same peppermint and coconut scent when he climbed down to adjust the bracket.
When they took a break, they sat on the old porch swing, drinking beer, watching a family of deer walk across the front yard through the pine trees. She told him she’d had a crush on him since she was 16, when he’d brought her a chocolate milkshake every night for two weeks while her dad was in the hospital for heart surgery, when he’d sat with her and watched old Westerns because she was scared to be alone in the house. He felt his chest go tight, half guilt, half something hot and sharp he hadn’t let himself feel in years, and he pulled back, shaking his head, saying it was wrong, that he’d known her since she was a kid, that he was still married to Diane, that everyone in town would talk.
She laughed soft, leaning in until her knee was pressed solidly against his, until he could feel the heat of her leg through his jeans, and she reached out, running her index finger along the thin scar on his forearm he’d gotten from a falling branch during the 2019 fire. “No one’s keeping score, Ron,” she said, her voice low, her eyes locked on his, no hesitation. “We don’t have to tell anyone anything. We don’t have to label it. We just have to not be lonely for a little while.”
He didn’t pull away when she leaned in and kissed him, slow and soft, her lips tasting like peppermint and beer, his calloused hand coming up to cup her jaw, the edge of his wedding band catching on the soft skin under her ear. He didn’t take the ring off that night, when they grilled burgers on her dad’s old charcoal grill, when she put on old Johnny Cash records and they danced slow in the middle of the living room, when he stayed until the moon was high over the pine trees.
When he drove home that night, he rolled the truck window all the way down, the cool pine air wrapping around his face, the taste of peppermint still on his lips. He reached into the center console, pulled out the half eaten peach pie he’d bought that Sunday, and tossed it out the window into the ditch by the side of the road.
