Roman Voss, 62, spent 28 years as a forest fire spotter perched in Oregon mountain towers before moving to Tampa last year to be near his granddaughter. His biggest flaw: he’d turned down every neighborhood invite since he arrived, convinced letting anyone get close would be a betrayal of his wife, who’d died of ovarian cancer eight years prior. He’d only shown up to the post-hurricane block party because his 10-year-old granddaughter had begged, promising the local barbecue crew was serving brisket so tender it melted on the tongue.
He leaned against an oak tree at the edge of the crowd, paper plate half full of brisket in one hand, sweet tea in the other, scuffing the toe of his worn work boots in the patchy St. Augustine grass. The air smelled like charcoal smoke, coconut tanning oil, and the faint mildew left behind by the pre-storm rains that had swept the coast three days prior. A half-assed cover band set up on a neighbor’s driveway cranked out 70s southern rock, kids screamed as they slipped down a plastic slip n slide strung across the street, and a group of retirees argued loudly about whether the county had overdone the evacuation orders. He was already mentally mapping his exit when Marnie stumbled into him.
She was carrying a plastic crate full of squirming kittens, here for the rescue adoption pop-up she ran out of her garage, and had tripped over a tipped cooler left by a group of teens. Her free hand shot out to steady herself, wrapping firm around his left forearm, calloused from hauling cat carriers and stacking food bags, a tiny half-healed scratch bright pink across her knuckle. The heat of her palm seeped through the thin fabric of his faded U.S. Forest Service hoodie, and he froze, half-ready to jerk away like he’d been burned. She laughed, bright and rough, the sound cutting through the band’s noise, and brushed a strand of silver-streaked auburn hair out of her eyes. “Sorry about that. Cooler came out of nowhere.”
Her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, a tiny silver hoop in her left ear catching the orange of the setting sun, and she was wearing a faded Lynyrd Skynyrd tee that had a hole at the collar, cutoff denim shorts, and scuffed cowboy boots caked in mud from her backyard rescue pen. He found himself telling her he didn’t mind, before he could think better of it. She noticed the hoodie then, and her smile softened, said her older brother had been a fire spotter in Montana until he’d died in the 2017 Lolo Peak fire.
They sat on the curb next to each other after that, the crate of kittens between their feet. Their knees brushed every time a neighbor walked past, and when the band cranked the volume up for a cover of “Free Bird”, she leaned in close to talk, her shoulder pressed tight to his, her breath smelling like peach iced tea and spearmint gum. She pulled a tiny tabby kitten with a white paw out of the crate and set it in his lap, and the thing curled up against his stomach, purring so loud he could feel the vibration through his jeans. For a second, a sharp twist of guilt hit him, like he was cheating on the wife he’d loved for 32 years, like he had no right to feel this light, this seen, after all that time spent closed off. He almost stood up to leave, almost made up an excuse about a headache, but then the kitten nudged his wrist with its tiny head, and she laughed when he stroked its fur, and the urge to run faded.
The band switched to “Sweet Home Alabama” a few minutes later, and a group of neighbors spilled into the street to dance, stepping around the slip n slide and the half-empty coolers. She stood up, wiped grass off the back of her shorts, and held her hand out to him. Her palm was up, fingers slightly curled, a faint smudge of cat litter on the side of her thumb. He stared at it for three full seconds, thinking of all the nights he’d sat alone in his bungalow watching old westerns, all the invites he’d thrown in the trash, all the times he’d told himself he didn’t need anyone else. Then he set his plate down on the curb, wiped his hand on his jeans, and took hers.
Her palm was sweaty, a little rough, and it fit in his like it had been made to. They danced slow, not too close at first, but then a kid darted between them chasing a beach ball, and she stumbled forward into his chest, his hand landing automatically on her waist to steady her. She didn’t step back. She tilted her head up to look at him, her eyes glinting, and he could smell the coconut shampoo in her hair, feel the heat of her body through her thin tee, the soft press of her hip against his. The noise of the party faded to a low hum for a second, like it was just the two of them standing there, the sun dipping below the rooflines, the kitten meowing soft from the crate at their feet.
When the song ended, she didn’t pull away. She said she had a full pack of brisket in her fridge at home, and a bottle of bourbon her brother had left her, stashed away for a day that felt worth celebrating. She asked if he wanted to come over. He nodded, let go of her hand long enough to pick up the crate of kittens, hoisting it easily against his hip, the tabby peeking over the edge at him. They walked down the block toward her bungalow, their shoulders bumping every few steps, the sound of the band fading behind them. She nudged his elbow with hers, and he smiled, a real one, the first he’d had that didn’t involve his granddaughter in almost a decade.
