Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial salmon fisherman, had spent the better part of four decades bracing against North Pacific swells, so he knew how to spot a current he couldn’t outrun before it even tugged at the laces of his scuffed rubber work boots. He’d sold his 42-foot troller, the Sea Hag, last spring after a pinched nerve in his lower back kept him tied to the dock for three straight fishing seasons, and now he fixed broken spinning and baitcasting reels out of his clapboard garage for local kids and old crew mates, charging half what the overpriced sporting goods store down Commercial Street asked. His biggest flaw, as his only sister liked to point out every Thanksgiving over dry turkey and lumpy mashed potatoes, was that he’d built a wall around himself so thick after his wife left him for a Portland real estate agent 12 years prior, he couldn’t even admit when a woman was flirting with him right to his face.
He was perched on a wobbly pine bar stool at The Rusty Anchor that Saturday night, two days after the annual Astoria Salmon Festival, nursing a frosty Pabst Blue Ribbon and grumbling about the city council’s new ban on unlicensed food carts at public events, when she slid onto the stool next to him. Lila Carter, 41, the old skipper’s daughter, had moved back to town three weeks prior after a messy divorce from a corporate lawyer in Seattle, and Ronan had only waved at her from across the street when she’d unloaded her moving truck, too self-conscious to say hello. He’d changed her diapers when she was a toddler, taught her how to bait a herring hook when she was 8, had driven her to the ER at 2 a.m. when she’d sliced her foot open on a sharp barnacle at the end of the pier when she was 14. He had no business noticing the way her sun-bleached auburn hair fell in loose waves over her denim jacket shoulders, or the constellation of freckles scattered across her nose, or the smudge of homemade blueberry pie filling on the side of her left wrist.
The pub smelled like fried halibut, pine-scented counter cleaner, and salt-crusted old rope hanging from the rafters, and the beat-up jukebox in the corner blared Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” so loud the pint glasses behind the bar rattled against their coasters. Lila flagged down the bartender, ordered a spiced hard cider, and turned to Ronan with that same half-cocked grin she’d had since she was a kid, the one that made her left dimple pop and her left eyebrow lift just a little. “Heard you chewed out a council member at the festival for chasing off the Garcia brothers’ taco cart,” she said, leaning in so her elbow brushed the sleeve of his faded gray flannel. The heat of her skin seeped through the thin, worn fabric, and Ronan shifted on his stool, suddenly hyper-aware of the thick calluses on his hands, the jagged scar across his left eyebrow from a 2009 storm that threw him into the boat’s wheel, the fact that he hadn’t showered since he’d spent the morning hauling rotting scrap lumber out of his backyard.
“Guy had it coming,” he mumbled, taking a long sip of his beer to avoid holding her gaze for too long. “Those taco guys have been coming to the festival for 18 years. Made the best carnitas this side of the border. Stupid rule is just the city trying to shake down small business owners for extra permit fees they can’t afford.” He could feel her eyes on him, steady, unapologetic, no trace of the shy kid he’d known growing up, and when he finally glanced over, she was still leaning in, close enough that he could smell the briny salt air in her hair and the soft lavender of her hand lotion, no heavy perfume, nothing fake, just her.
“I always liked that about you,” she said, and her voice was softer now, no teasing edge, just quiet honesty. “You never cared who you pissed off if you thought something was unfair. I had the biggest crush on you when I was 16, you know? Thought you were the coolest, toughest guy on the whole dock.” Ronan choked on his beer, coughing so hard his eyes watered, and she laughed, a bright, throaty sound that cut through the jukebox noise and the chatter of the few remaining patrons. “It’s true. I used to beg my dad to bring you extra chocolate chip cookies on the boat just so I could have an excuse to talk to you when you guys pulled into dock.”
The conflict hit him square in the chest, hot and sharp, half thrumming desire half the kind of sharp, twisting guilt that makes your stomach turn. This was the skipper’s kid. He’d known her her whole life. He was 21 years older than her, for Christ’s sake, had watched her graduate high school, had sent her a $50 check in a card for her college graduation. He should be pushing her away, making a dumb joke about her being a stupid kid with a silly crush, getting up and leaving before he did something he’d regret. But he didn’t. He stayed, and when she reached across the bar to grab a crumpled paper napkin to wipe the pie filling off her wrist, her hand brushed his, calloused from years of rock climbing, he remembered, and he didn’t pull away.
They talked for another hour, about the festival’s silly salmon toss contest, about her ex-husband’s affair with his paralegal, about the new owner of the Sea Hag who’d painted it bright neon blue, about how her dad still called Ronan the best deckhand he ever had. The crowd thinned out, the bartender started stacking chairs on the tables for closing, and when Lila stood up, she stumbled a little, her scuffed white combat boot catching on the leg of the stool. Ronan stood up fast, his hand landing on her lower back to steady her, his palm flat against the soft, worn fabric of her jacket, and the sharp, fizzing electricity of that touch traveled all the way up his arm to the base of his skull.
“Walk me home?” she asked, looking up at him, her hazel eyes dark in the dim pub light, and Ronan nodded, no hesitation, no overthinking, no list of reasons he shouldn’t. It was raining a little when they stepped outside, the wooden boardwalk slick with sea spray and cold rain, and he kept his hand on her back the whole three blocks to her small blue bungalow, the one she’d inherited from her grandma. When they got to her porch, she didn’t reach for her keys right away. She turned to face him, so close their chests were almost touching, and she lifted her hand to brush a strand of rain-soaked gray hair off his forehead, her fingers lingering on his cheek, cold from the rain.
He kissed her first, slow, tentative at first, like he was testing the temperature of the water before he dove in, and when she kissed him back, her hands tangled in the curly gray hair at the nape of his neck, he forgot all about the guilt, about the age difference, about the thick, high wall he’d built around himself for 12 years. She tasted like spiced hard cider and sweet blueberry pie, and when she pulled back to catch her breath, she smiled that same half-cocked grin, and nodded toward the front door.
“You wanna come in for coffee? I just brewed a pot of that dark roast you used to drink on the boat,” she asked, and Ronan nodded, his hand still resting light on her lower back, no more pulling away, no more running from the current. He followed her up the creaky wooden porch steps, the cold rain tapping soft against the porch roof, and didn’t look back.
