Rafe Mendez, 59, retired forest fire crew supervisor, was already counting the minutes until he could ditch the fire department’s charity chili booth when he spotted her. He’d owed the new chief a favor for pulling his pickup out of a ditch last winter, so he’d agreed to man the booth at the annual Maple Creek street fair, even if he thought the whole event was the kind of corny nonsense he’d avoided since his wife Sarah died three years prior. His hoodie was cut off at the elbows, exposing the thick, silvery scar snaking up his left forearm from the 2018 Gorge blaze, and his work boots were caked in dust from the parking lot. The air smelled like burnt chili, fried funnel cake, and the cheap citronella candles the fair committee had set out to keep mosquitos away, and a country cover band off to the side was butchering a 90s Travis Tritt track.
He recognized Lila before she got within ten feet of the booth. Sarah’s second cousin, 54, ran a herbal apothecary down in Ashland, he’d only seen her a handful of times over the years, at weddings and funerals and the occasional family Thanksgiving, but he’d never been able to forget her. Sun streaks laced her dark, wavy hair, she wore a linen button-down unfastened one notch too low, and she smelled like lavender and pine when she leaned against the booth’s rough wooden counter. “Figured I’d find you here covered in chili grease,” she said, grinning, tapping the scar on his forearm with one finger, her nail polished a soft, matte green. He flinched not because the scar ached, though it always did when the humidity spiked, but because no one had touched that spot on purpose since Sarah used to rub aloe on it after he got home from fire season.
He grumbled something about the kid he was supposed to work with bailing to go to an indie show in Portland, and she laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the noise of the fair. She stayed to help, even though he told her she didn’t have to, and for two hours they worked shoulder to shoulder, passing out paper bowls of chili, taking cash donations, bantering like they’d known each other their whole lives instead of just crossing paths every few years. Her hip pressed against his every time she reached for a stack of napkins, and he could feel the heat of her through his jeans, could smell her perfume mixing with the chili smoke. Every time she looked up at him, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he made a dumb joke about the chief’s terrible chili recipe, his chest felt tight, like he was 17 again trying to work up the nerve to ask Sarah to prom.
He felt guilty, at first, like he was doing something wrong, like Sarah was watching him from somewhere and rolling her eyes at how stupid he was being. But then he remembered the last conversation he’d had with her, in the hospital, when she’d grabbed his hand and told him he better not spend the rest of his life moping, that Lila was the only woman she knew who was stubborn enough to put up with his crap. He’d brushed it off then, thought she was just loopy from the pain meds, but now it was all he could think about, every time Lila’s arm brushed his, every time she laughed at one of his bad jokes.
By the time the fair closed down at 8, they’d raised $820 more than the fire department’s goal, and Rafe’s feet ached, but he didn’t want the night to end. He offered to buy her a beer at the dive bar down the street, the one with the neon deer head above the door, and she said yes before he even finished the question. They sat in a booth in the back, far away from the handful of regulars at the bar, their knees brushing under the Formica table. She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, and said, “I’ve been waiting 12 years to ask you if you ever thought about what we could’ve been, if you hadn’t been married.”
Rafe froze, his beer halfway to his mouth. He’d thought about it, more times than he’d ever admit out loud, thought about it at every family gathering, thought about it when Sarah would tease him about how Lila looked at him like he hung the moon. He nodded, set the beer down, and reached across the table, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek. She leaned into the touch, her hand coming up to cover his, her palm warm against his scar.
He walked her to her beat up Subaru an hour later, the street fair lights strung above them glowing soft gold, the air cool now that the sun had gone down. She handed him a small glass jar of salve, labeled in her messy handwriting, said it was for the residual ache in his scar, that she’d noticed him rubbing it throughout the day. She scribbled her number on the back of a fair raffle ticket, tucked it into the pocket of his jeans, and told him she was staying at the old family cabin up on the mountain for the week, that the trail to the overlook he used to take Sarah to was still clear, if he wanted to hike it with her tomorrow and watch the sunset.
He stood in the parking lot long after she drove off, the jar of salve heavy in his hand, the ticket crinkling against his thigh when he slipped his hand into his pocket. He pulled out his old flip phone, the same one he’d had for 10 years, and dialed the number before he could talk himself out of it, smiling when she answered on the first ring. He asked her if she still made that wild blackberry pie she used to bring to Thanksgiving, said he’d pick up a six pack of her favorite hazy IPA on his way up the mountain tomorrow.
