Ronan O’Malley, 62, spent 38 years gillnetting salmon on the Columbia River before his wife’s ovarian cancer forced him to sell his 42-foot boat and open a tiny, cluttered bait and tackle shop on the edge of Astoria, Oregon. He’d avoided the fire department’s annual summer beer garden every year since she died, convinced loud crowds and forced small talk were a waste of the quiet evenings he’d earned, but his 16-year-old granddaughter had cornered him at breakfast two days prior, batting the same pale blue eyes her grandma had, and said she needed him to buy at least ten of her 4-H raffle tickets to hit her sales goal. He’d caved before she finished talking.
He was leaning against the side of the street taco truck, half-drunk on a cold IPA and picking cilantro off his carnitas taco, when she bumped into him. The frozen margarita in her neon green plastic cup sloshed over the rim, soaking a three-inch splotch on the front of his faded gray flannel, even through the thick cotton undershirt he wore under it. She yelped an apology, stepping close immediately, dabbing at the wet spot with a crumpled paper napkin she pulled from the back pocket of her high-waisted cutoff denim shorts, and Ronan froze. He could smell coconut sunscreen and tangy lime on her, hear the faint jingle of dented silver hoop earrings as she moved, feel the soft brush of her knuckles against his chest through the damp, worn fabric. When she looked up at him, hazel eyes flecked with bright gold, long streaks of gray in her dark hair sticking to the sweat on her forehead, he realized he hadn’t stood that close to a woman who wasn’t his granddaughter or a cashier at the grocery store in eight years.
He sat. He told himself it was just being polite, that he could leave in ten minutes, that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. But the words kept coming, easier than they had in years: he told her about fishing the river in the middle of November storm season, when the swells got so high they crashed over the bow of his boat, about the way the salmon ran so thick in October you could almost reach down and grab them with your bare hands, about how his wife used to pack him meatloaf sandwiches for 3-day trips, even though she hated the smell of fish that clung to his clothes for days after he got home. She told him about moving from Portland after her 22-year marriage ended in an amicable divorce, about how she’d always wanted to live somewhere where she could see the river from her front porch, about how she’d checked out three books on Columbia River fishing from her own library before she’d worked up the courage to walk into his gruff-looking shop. Their knees brushed under the rickety folding table they’d pulled close to share a plate of loaded nachos, and every time she leaned in to hear him over the roar of the crowd, her bare shoulder pressed to his, and that old, familiar buzz of desire hummed low in his chest, tangled up tight with the sharp, familiar twinge of guilt. He’d spent eight years telling himself he’d never want anyone else, that loving anyone after his wife was a betrayal, but he couldn’t make himself pull away.
The MC for the raffle got on the mic as the sun dipped low over the river, painting the sky streaks of pink and tangerine that reflected off the choppy gray water, and called Elara’s name for the grand prize: a half-day guided salmon fishing trip for two, donated by the local charter company. She whooped, holding the crumpled raffle ticket up over her head like a trophy, then turned to Ronan, grinning so wide the deep dimple in her left cheek showed. “You said you were mad I didn’t get a rod at your shop,” she said, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the scattered applause, “so you can teach me the right way. No tourist garbage. Deal?” He hesitated for half a second, the ghost of his wife’s laugh in his ear, the way she’d always told him he needed to get out more, stop moping around the shop after she was gone. Then he nodded, taking the edge of the ticket between his thumb and forefinger, his calloused skin brushing hers.
They walked back to their trucks an hour later, the crowd thinning out fast, the air cool enough that he could see his breath when he exhaled. A scruffy stray golden retriever trotted up to them, tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggled, and Elara stopped to scratch behind its floppy ears, her hand brushing his when she stood back up. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he pulled his beat-up old flip phone out of his work pants pocket, typed his number into her contacts, and told her to text him when she was free next weekend, he’d bring the extra rod he kept in his shop, she could bring the margaritas. She slipped her phone back into her pocket, leaned up, and pressed a soft, quick kiss to his cheek, the edge of her tinted lip balm brushing the corner of his mouth. He stood there for five minutes after she drove away, the ghost of her cherry lip balm on his skin, the sound of her laugh still in his ears, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel guilty for looking forward to tomorrow.
