by Roxie Noir
Do I tell them another raccoon got into her house and she has to trap it? I think wildly. Do they need to know that?
I laugh nervously into the microphone and decide to cut it as short as possible.
“But, on her behalf, and on the behalf of everyone — of the whole Copper Creek Ranger Division, which I’m part of, actually, I’m also a forest ranger —”
This is going off the rails. Fuck. I take a deep breath.
Suddenly, a piece of public speaking advice comes back to me: Pick one person in the crowd and pretend that you’re talking just to them. I glance over the tables in front of me, but they’re all firefighters I don’t know, and their faces just make me more nervous.
“In thanks for your hard work fighting the Elkhorn fire, which I’m sure everyone here knows is one hundred percent contained and actually almost out since we’ve had those big rainstorms rolling through...”
I stop.
I’ve landed on a pair of deep blue eyes. They’re the color of a glacial melt lake in the spring. The color of a snowy hillside in deep shadow.
I didn’t make that up just now. I once waxed poetic for two whole pages in my diary about these eyes, and even though I don’t remember half the ridiculous things I wrote back then, I sure as hell recognize them.
Hunter Casden is staring right back at me.
I didn’t even know he was here, in this church basement, let alone in the town of Lodgepole.
I wasn’t even sure he was in Montana, honestly.
“Uh,” I say.
My brain’s frozen. I think I’d be less surprised if JFK or Elvis were sitting there. At least, I’d be less gobsmacked.
I didn’t lose my virginity to Elvis. When I was eighteen, I wasn’t completely certain I was going to marry JFK.
I swallow and manage to close my mouth. My brain is going a million miles a second, thinking a stream of nonsense like holy shit is that Hunter yes that’s him wait are you sure what if it’s just — no, I’m really really sure that is him sitting right there, yes, oh my god, how long has it even been does he recognize me?
Then, the worst thing happens.
Hunter smiles at me, and suddenly, I’m not here in front of practically everyone I know. I’m in the front seat of his truck after school, just the two of us, and he’s looking at me like that.
I force myself to look away. I pick a spot on the wall and stare at it, even though I don’t have the slightest clue where I was in my little speech.
“On behalf of the Forest Service and the Copper Creek Ranger Division, I’d like to present the Canyon Country Hotshot crew with this commemorative plaque of thanks, from us to you!” I say, the words tumbling over each other, like they can’t wait to be out of my mouth.
A second later, I hold the plaque up in front of myself. I look everywhere but at Hunter.
People applaud politely. A middle-aged man stands from a table, walks up to me, and holds out one hand. I shake it. I hand over the plaque as a few flashes go off, and then he gestures at the microphone.
I’m more than happy to step back.
“I’d like to say a warm thanks to the people of Lodgepole for this beautiful plaque, and for opening your hearts and your homes to us like you have...”
He goes on for a few more sentences, but I’m not listening, because Hunter Casden is sitting fifteen feet away and I didn’t know we were in the same state.
The man holds up the plaque. He looks at me. People applaud again. I smile mechanically, because this seems like the sort of occasion where people smile, even though I feel like every nerve in my body is vibrating so fast I might catch fire.
Barry comes back. The guy I gave the plaque to heads to his seat, and I walk back to mine, heels clicking on the floor, beads of sweat sliding behind my ears.
I don’t look at Hunter again, but after I’m back at my seat, I stare at the back of his head and don’t hear a single word anyone else says for the rest of the night.
My mind is swirling. I used to think about this moment all the time, about what I’d say to him if I ever saw him again. I’d imagined that I’d be happily married, hot husband on my arm, glamorous and confident, not stumbling my way through a simple speech in a church basement.
I didn’t think I’d feel this deep, weird stab of familiarity. I didn’t think I’d still recognize the look on his face. I didn’t think it would feel like I’d just seen him yesterday, not eight years ago.
And I didn’t think my brain would insist on repeating the last thing he ever said to me: I never loved you anyway.
2
Hunter
From across the table, my Captain is glaring daggers, but I have no fucking idea why. I just stare back, wondering what his problem is this time.
I showed up to this dumb spaghetti dinner, even though I’d rather be with that cute waitress from the barbecue joint, showing her some fire hose techniques, if you know what I mean. Though from the way she winked at me and wrote her number on my receipt, I have the feeling she already knows her way around one.
Porter’s still glaring, and now his jaw flexes a little, the way it does when he’s really annoyed, but I still don’t know why. I wore my only button-down shirt, a tie, and khaki slacks, so I look like a twenty-year-old interviewing to be the bag boy at the grocery store.
I’m not really paying attention to the tap dancing kids or the high schoolers reciting poetry, but come the fuck on. None of us are. This is the boring part of the job, the part where the people whose towns didn’t get burned down tell us how glad they are about it.
Sure, it’s nice of them. But I’d rather be doing pretty much anything else right now. Hell, I’d rather be digging a fire break in ninety-degree heat, watching smoke rise from trees a quarter-mile away. At least that’s exciting.
The kids up front stop tap-dancing, and everyone applauds. I put down my plastic fork and join in, and even Porter looks away from me for a moment.
Then the guy with the gray hair — I think he’s the mayor or something, if this town is even big enough for a mayor — comes back and starts saying something. I glance down at my plate, and suddenly, I realize what Ryan was so annoyed about.
My plastic silverware is in a pile on my plate, broken into tiny pieces. It’s topped by my napkin, also torn into tiny shreds.
I’ve never been able to sit still. I need action, I need things to do, or I start getting a little stir crazy. That’s when I do shit like tear napkins into tiny pieces. Porter once compared me to a dog who tears the house up out of boredom when the owners were gone, and even though I wasn’t crazy about the comparison, he had a point.
I sit back in my chair and cross my arms in front of my chest, giving Porter a happy now? look. He turns away, and I wonder how much longer I have to sit here.
I don’t do this job for the thanks, or to save lives, or any of that heroic shit. I do this because it’s exciting. It’s thrilling. It’s the only thing that comes close to being in a war zone.
The mayor-or-whatever is still talking, but at least he’s wrapping it up.
“Next, I’d like to give the floor to the senior ranger from the Copper Creek Division, Jennifer Tetson. Jennifer?”
A chair somewhere behind me scrapes against the tile, and as heels click toward the front of the room, I pray that this endless dinner is nearly over.
Then Jennifer Tetson comes into view, her back to me, and I sit up a little straighter.
Her ass in that skirt might make up for the last hour I’ve spent listening to kids sing off-key. Hell, that ass might be worth another hour of sappy patriotic songs and bad poetry.
She threads her way past a few more tables, my eyes glued to her. I feel Captain Porter glaring at me again, but it’s way beyond my power to stop watching the way her hips move under her professional-but-tight skirt.
Plus, there’s something familiar about her that I can’t put my finger on.
It’s just déjà vu, I think. How many times have you watched a hot girl
walk across a room?
I’m not convincing, even to myself.
Jennifer, I think, trying to jog my memory. The name doesn’t ring a bell, but it’s not like I can remember every woman’s name, and I’ve met plenty of forest rangers in my line of work.
Then she reaches the microphone, says something to the mayor, and turns around.
My mouth actually drops open.
Holy shit, it’s Clementine.
For a moment I just blink at her. My mind goes blank with surprise. Then I manage to pull my mouth shut and start spinning through possibilities.
Did she change her name? I think. Does she have a twin? Separated at birth? What’s she doing here? She’s a forest ranger?
I’m fucking baffled. Not that she’s a forest ranger — that actually makes total sense — but I had no idea she was here. I had no idea her name was Jennifer now.
But I’m totally sure of one thing: that’s her. I know it with a bone-deep certainty that I can’t even explain, like the last eight years just peeled away and I’m about to walk her to class again.
She clears her throat and adjusts the microphone. Even from here I can tell she’s nervous. I guess she never got over her dislike of speaking in front of more than four people.
“Thanks, Barry,” she says, her voice high-pitched and tight, but the same as I remember. “Unfortunately, Jennifer was called away at the last minute, but I’m here on her behalf...”
Well, that explains that, at least.
Clementine goes on in her nervous voice, her light hazel eyes darting around the crowd. She’s saying something to us, but all I can think is: she got hot.
That’s not even accurate.
She got hotter.
Clementine was always hot, but she used to be secretly hot, her body hidden under a layer of sweaters and baggy cargo jeans. I could always tell how sexy she was — it’s a talent — but now it’s definitely not a secret. Not if her ass looks like that in a skirt, and not with the way she’s looking out at the crowd with moss-colored eyes under deep brown bangs, even if she’s nervous.
She rambles a little, fiddling with the plaque in her hands, scanning the crowd. I may be twenty-six, and may not have seen her in almost a decade, but I feel like I’ve been knocked back to seventeen again, fucking around in chemistry class, trying to get the cute nerd to notice me.
I’ve gotten much better at women, by the way. I haven’t broken a beaker just so a girl would look at me in ages.
Her eyes sweep the crowd again, and suddenly she’s locked on to me. She trails off for a moment, and even though her face stays perfectly still, two things are obvious right away.
One, she recognizes me.
And two, she had no idea I was here.
She swallows once, and I have to fight the urge to start laughing, because this feels so strange, and weird, and more than anything familiar.
I can’t help but smile at her. For a second, I’m certain she’s going to smile back, but then she snaps out of it, brushes her bangs out of her eyes, and starts talking again, even faster than before.
In a blur, she gives Porter the plaque. He says something nice. I can’t tear my eyes away from Clementine. People clap.
They both walk away, and even though I shouldn’t, I crane my head after her.
She doesn’t look back at me.
Some high school girls come up and sing America, the Beautiful, but I can’t even pretend I’m listening. I haven’t even talked to Clementine in eight years. When we broke up, she practically fell off the face of the earth.
I feel like I’m seeing a ghost, except I’m pretty sure she’s real.
The mayor comes back and talks more. I think about Clementine, years ago, the first time we fooled around in her parents’ basement. On that ugly green couch with yellow flowers, my hands under her sweater.
The noise she made when I unhooked her bra and pinched her nipples. I was a little more experienced than her, but not much. I swear that noise was a revelation.
The next time we were on that couch, when I got my hands under her sweater, she wasn’t wearing a bra at all. I still remember exactly the way she smiled when my fingers found nothing but skin.
Everyone around me applauds, and then they start standing. Someone’s calling my name, but it’s background noise. I stand and turn away from the table, already scanning the crowd over everyone’s heads, but I don’t see her at the table where she was sitting.
I don’t see her anywhere.
Shit.
I pick up the pace, dodging around old ladies who are slow to stand up, nearly tripping over some kids who dart right in front of me. A mom gives me a dirty look but I ignore it, glancing over her head, looking for Clementine’s dark hair and hazel eyes.
Nothing.
Did she run away from me? I wonder, and my heart sinks. I know our breakup was ugly — hell, I was there too — but I didn’t think it was avoid-me-eight-years-later ugly. For fuck’s sake, we were teenagers, and now we’re adults.
She can’t even say hi?
“Excuse me,” a very prim voice says, and I snap out of it to find a middle-aged woman in a button-down denim dress, sneakers, and a stern expression standing there, staring at me.
“Yes ma’am,” I say, and smile at her.
“The rest of your team is helping the Ladies’ Auxiliary clear the tables and chairs,” she says, pointing, but her voice has lost the grating quality it had before.
Even if she won’t come out and directly ask, I know exactly what she wants. I’m not stupid.
“Just one minute, ma’am,” I say, still smiling. Then I walk off before she can say anything else, her withering glare following me across the room.
She can glare ’til the cows come home for all I care.
I shoulder my way through the exit, still looking around at the people milling around the foyer, heading up the stairs to the cool night. No Clementine, but I’m not that surprised.
Back when I knew her, when she was upset, other people were the last thing she wanted to deal with. If she was angry, or embarrassed, half the time I’d find her alone in a dark room, sitting on the floor, staring out a window, and she’d tell me she just needed space.
So I look for space. I walk down a hall, away from the throng of people, away from the ladies who want me to put away tables and away from the teenaged singers and the dads who smell like spaghetti. I turn a corner into a darker part of the church basement.
Near the end, there’s a closed door, light leaking out from underneath it. Behind me, a couple of the crew burst into laughter, and just from the sound, I can tell they’ve spiked their fruit punch. After this they’re heading to the Rusty Beaver, the only bar in town, and they’ll probably all go home with the town’s three eligible women.
I step forward into the dark hallway. I don’t know why I’m so sure, but I know Clementine’s in there, that she escaped here for a minute alone after her presentation.
Halfway down, I pause for a second and listen. There’s the hubbub of the crowd behind me, but there’s a sound from behind the closed door, too, and suddenly I pause.
It’s Clementine.
And I’m almost positive she’s sobbing.
She doesn’t want to see you, I think. She always hated it when people saw her cry.
I walk to the door anyway, drawn in, a moth to the light.
Inside, there’s a long, drawn out gasp, like she’s having trouble breathing, and I frown, my heart clenching.
“Clem?” I call, one hand on the door frame.
There’s no answer, just a muffled sound from inside, and I realize I was wrong: she’s not sobbing, she’s choking.
I try the doorknob, but it’s locked. Probably a bathroom.
I slam my shoulder against the door, and it shudders but doesn’t budge.
From inside the room, I just hear another wheeze, the sound of someone struggling for breath.
“Get away from the door!” I shout, and take a step back,
readying myself.
I pause a moment, gathering myself. I find the best spot on the door: right above the knob, the most likely to pop the lock.
Then I kick it in with as much force as I can muster.
3
Clementine
I put both hands on the edge of the sink and grip the porcelain so hard my fingertips go white. Then I force myself to stop coughing for just long enough to finally take a real breath.
Hunter’s outside. I don’t know how the hell he found me down here, but he’s shouting my name. I can’t even answer without coughing harder.
God, don’t let me be the first person to die from inhaling fruit punch while her ex-boyfriend pounds on the bathroom door, I think. How did this even happen?
“Move back!” Hunter shouts, and at that moment, I start coughing hard again, tears running down my face, bent over the sink.
I wave one hand at the door helplessly, like that will somehow keep him from doing whatever he’s about to do.
It doesn’t.
A second later there’s a crash and the door flies open, the doorknob slamming into the wall. I bury my face in my elbow, still coughing hard, as Hunter rushes toward me.
All I can do is hold up my other hand and shake my head, hoping to communicate please don’t try the Heimlich and break my ribs or something.
“Clem,” he says, but he stops just short of me, hovering both hands near my shoulder.
I shake my head harder, then grip the sink again and take another long, shaky inhale.
“What happened?” he asks, still sounding concerned.
His voice still sounds almost the same. He’s got the same slow, twangy cadence that he used to have, the one he learned growing up on his parents’ cattle ranch. I think he’s a little raspier now, maybe a little deeper, and his words might be a little more clipped, but he’s unmistakably familiar.
As an answer I just point at my half-full glass of punch, sitting on the sink, and start coughing again. This time he puts on big hand on my back, right between my shoulder blades, and even though I’m still gasping and hacking, it’s warm and comforting.