Rafe Mendez, 52, retired Portland fireboat captain, leaned against a scotch pine at the edge of the county beer festival, sweating through the collar of his faded Carhartt tee. He’d shown up an hour prior, fully planning to leave after one cold IPA, but the bluegrass band on the main stage was better than he expected, and the crowd wasn’t as rowdy as the festivals he remembered from his 20s. A faint scar snaked up his left forearm, pale and raised from a 2018 cargo ship fire that had earned him a medal and a medical retirement he’d never asked for. He’d spent the last eight years shutting himself off from any kind of intimate connection after his wife left him for a corporate lawyer she met at a work conference, convinced he was too gruff, too scarred, too set in his ways to be anyone’s first choice.
He was halfway through his second beer when he spotted Mara Torres, the 38-year-old who’d opened the independent maritime bookstore three blocks from his garage six months prior. He’d dropped off three boxes of old navigation charts and sea story collections a few weeks after she opened, had mumbled a quick greeting and left before she could ask him to stay for coffee. She was wearing a cutoff red flannel over a thin white tank, a tiny constellation tattoo curling around her left wrist that he’d caught a glimpse of during that first visit. She waved when she saw him, weaving through the crowd of festival goers with a sour ale in one hand, and stopped so close when she reached him that he could smell lavender shampoo mixed with the citrus tang of her drink over the heavy scent of hops and grilled bratwurst drifting from the food trucks. Her shoulder brushed his scarred forearm when she leaned in to yell over the band, and he flinched like he’d been burned, half out of surprise, half out of the sharp, unnameable pull he’d felt every time he’d thought about her over the last few months.
She laughed at his reaction, leaning back just far enough to make eye contact, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. She teased him for always hiding out, said she’d asked his next door neighbor about him three times, wondering if he ever left his garage long enough to do anything that didn’t involve grease and old motor parts. He opened his mouth to make an excuse to leave, the familiar twist of self-disgust curling in his gut—what was a woman that sharp, that bright, doing talking to a broken-down old ex-fireman who ate frozen burritos for dinner four nights a week?—but then she mentioned the 1972 Columbia River navigation chart he’d given her, said she’d framed it above her checkout counter, that regulars asked about it every single day. He forgot what he was going to say.
They migrated to a splintered pine picnic table a few feet away, sitting close enough that their knees brushed every time one of them shifted. She asked to try his IPA, reaching across the table, and her fingers brushed his when he handed her the cup. She didn’t pull away fast, held his gaze for a beat longer than casual conversation required before taking a sip, making a face at the bitter hop flavor and handing it back. He told her about the fire that gave him the scar, rolling up his sleeve to show her the full extent of the mottled, pale skin, expecting her to flinch, but she just leaned in, her fingers hovering over the raised edge of the scar for a second before she brushed it lightly, intentional, not an accident. She said it looked like a map, like the ones she sold in her store.
He admitted he’d been avoiding her, had walked past her store three times in the last month and turned around before he could go in, scared he’d make a fool of himself. She laughed, loud and warm, and said she’d driven past his garage twice the week prior, sat in her car for 10 minutes before driving away, scared he’d turn her down when she asked him out. The bluegrass band switched to a slow waltz, and the sun dipped below the tree line, painting the sky pink and orange at the edges. She asked him if he’d take her out on his old fishing boat sometime, said she’d never been out on the river at sunset, that she’d been dying to ask him for months. He said yes, before he could talk himself out of it.
They finished their beers as the crowd started to thin, and he offered to walk her back to her apartment above the bookstore, three blocks away. She linked her arm through his as they walked, her shoulder pressed to his, the sound of the festival fading behind them as they turned down the quiet side street where her store was. When they reached her front steps, she pulled her keys out of her pocket, her hand brushing his as she did, and asked him if he wanted to come in to see the framed chart, said she’d baked lemon bars that morning that were still good. He nodded, following her up the steps, his hand resting light on the small of her back as she unlocked the front door.
