Rafe Castillo, 58, retired wildland fire crew superintendent, has spent the seven years since his ex-wife left turning down every set-up and casual advance, convinced any romantic entanglement would only disrupt the quiet, uncomplicated routine he’s built restoring 1980s Ford F-150s in his backyard shop and volunteering with the local volunteer fire department. The scar snaking up his left forearm is from a 2017 blaze outside Missoula, when he pushed a rookie crew member out of the way of a falling cedar; he still gets twinges in it when the humidity spikes, which it is this mid-July evening in western Oregon, the air thick with clover and the smell of grilled brats from the fire department’s annual fundraiser beer garden.
He’s sitting alone at a splintered pine picnic table, half done with a hazy IPA, ignoring the couple next to him making googly eyes, when she sits down two feet away, no fanfare, sets a plate of loaded nachos on the table between them. He recognizes her immediately as Elara Voss, the new county librarian who moved to town three months prior, the one he’d avoided at the town hall meeting last month because he’d spent his whole school career getting yelled at by librarians for talking too loud or tracking pine sap into the stacks. He’d pictured her in frumpy cardigans and cat-eye glasses, scowling at anyone who turned a page too hard, but she’s wearing cutoff denim shorts that show off a smattering of freckles across her thighs, a faded 1998 Pearl Jam tour tee, and scuffed white Converse, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy braid, a silver hoop earring catching the golden hour sun when she turns to look at him.
“Mind if I sit here? All the other tables are taken by fire crew guys showing off their old injury photos,” she says, grinning, and her voice is lower than he expected, rough around the edges like she spends half her time laughing too hard. He nods, mumbles a sure, goes back to sipping his beer, tells himself he’s not going to engage, he’s just here to drop off his donation and head home to work on his latest truck. Then she reaches for a cheese-covered nacho, her elbow brushing the raised scar on his forearm, and he flinches before he can stop himself. She pulls back immediately, apologetic, her fingers hovering half an inch above his skin for a split second before she drops her hand. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. That looks like a rough one.”
He doesn’t usually talk about the scar, hates the pitying looks people give him when he explains it, but something about the way she’s looking at him—no pity, just curiosity—makes him tell her the story. She leans in when he talks, her elbow resting on the table an inch from his, her eyes never leaving his face, even when a group of kids runs past screaming chasing an ice cream truck. When he finishes, she nods, taps the small scar above her left eyebrow. “Got this when I crashed my dirt bike on the coast last year. Tried to jump a sand dune I had no business attempting. Librarians don’t usually admit to being dumbasses, right?”
He snorts, laughs louder than he has in months, and she smiles back, her teeth bright against her sun-tanned skin. The humidity is rising, the first hint of evening mist rolling off the nearby Willamette River, and he can smell coconut shampoo and cut grass on her when she shifts in her seat, her hip brushing his knee as she leans forward to grab a napkin. He freezes for half a second, his brain warring between the part that’s screaming to leave before he gets attached, the part that’s terrified of letting anyone get close enough to see how messy he still is over the divorce, and the part that hasn’t felt this light, this seen, in years.
She wipes a smudge of cheese off her chin, and he notices her nails are painted chipped cherry red, no fancy manicure, like she spends half her time digging in the dirt or hauling boxes of books around the library. “We got a whole box of vintage 1970s fire safety posters in the archives last week,” she says, leaning in so close he can smell the lime from her margarita on her breath, her shoulder pressed lightly against his bicep now, no space between them. “Most of them are ridiculous, guys in tight fire gear holding cats out of burning trees, that kind of stuff. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come look through them sometime next week. We could get tacos after, if you want.”
He almost says no, the old stubborn habit kicking in, ready to make up an excuse about working on his truck, but then she brushes a stray pine needle off the sleeve of his flannel shirt, her fingers lingering on the fabric for a beat longer than necessary, and he nods before he can think better of it. They exchange numbers, she types her name into his phone with a little fire emoji next to it, laughs when he fumbles the passcode because his hands are a little shaky. She says she has to go pick up her old border collie from the sitter, stands up, slings her canvas tote bag over her shoulder. “I’ll text you tomorrow, okay?” she says, and she winks before she turns and walks toward the parking lot, her braid swinging as she goes.
He sits there for another ten minutes, sipping his now warm beer, staring at the contact in his phone, then looks down at the napkin she was using, a smudge of her cherry red nail polish on the corner next to a crumb of tortilla chip. He picks it up, tucks it into the pocket of his work jeans before he stands to head for his own truck.
