Jax Rainer, 57, retired Bering Sea commercial fisherman with 30 years of ice storms and broken winch cables under his belt, leaned his weight against a weathered cedar piling at the edge of the county oyster roast, cold IPA sweating through the thin cardboard coozie in his left hand. The scar splitting his right eyebrow, a souvenir from a 2018 rogue wave that slammed him into the wheelhouse console, throbbed when the salt wind shifted, carrying the sharp tang of charred garlic butter, briny oyster liquor, and damp seaweed tangled under the worn work boots he’d had resoled three times since he’d quit fishing. He’d shown up only because his old deckhand, now the senior center director, owed him a 10-pound bag of frozen spot prawns for helping rewire the center’s kitchen the week prior, and he’d planned to slip out before any of the town’s well-meaning church ladies could corner him and ask when he’d “stop hiding out in that bait shop of yours and find a nice lady to cook for.”
He’d spent 12 years building small, unbreakable routines to outrun his guilt: same 5 a.m. walk along the tide line every morning, same bacon and egg biscuit from the pier diner every Wednesday, same old Merle Haggard records spinning while he fixed broken fishing reels behind the counter of his tiny shop. Letting anyone into that rhythm felt like a deserved punishment, a penance for missing his ex-wife’s mother’s funeral to stay out on an extra week of fishing that had netted him a $12,000 bonus and a divorce he’d never contested. He’d bought the bait shop three months after the papers were signed, left all their old friends in Kodiak behind, because he couldn’t stand the way they’d side-eye him every time he showed up to the bar alone.
He spotted her across the sand before anyone could flag him down. Elara Voss, 52, the ceramicist who’d moved to town three months prior to open a small pottery studio on the main street, was laughing so hard at a kid who’d dropped a tray of buttered corn on the cob that she snort-laughed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye with the back of her smudged hand. She was wearing cutoff denim shorts that showed off the small anchor tattoo on her left ankle, a faded 1989 Tom Petty tour tee, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on top of her wavy auburn hair, sun freckles dusting the bridge of her nose and the tops of her bare shoulders. He’d run into her three times already: once at the hardware store when he helped her pick up a 5-gallon bucket of glaze she’d dropped, once at the diner when she’d sat down next to him and asked about the best spots to find agates on the beach, once at the bait shop when she’d come in to buy a fishing license for her teenage nephew. He’d cut every conversation short, mumbled excuses, bolted before she could ask him to get a drink. He’d heard the town gossip: widowed seven years prior, her longshoreman husband had had a heart attack on the docks the same day she’d turned down his request to take off work for a weekend trip to the coast, she’d moved here to get away from the constant reminders of the choice she regretted.
Before he could turn for his beat-up 2004 Ford F-150, his old deckhand yelled his name loud enough that half the roast turned to look, and waved him over. Jax sighed, drained the last of his IPA, and trundled across the warm sand, the cuffs of his worn canvas work pants brushing the tops of his calloused feet. Elara held out her hand when he got close, her palm rough from throwing clay, nails chipped with flecks of brown and blue glaze, and when he took it, her grip was firm, no dainty little shake. She leaned against the same piling he’d been propped on ten minutes prior, her shoulder brushing his when she shifted to reach for a grilled oyster off the tray between them, and the scent of lavender soap and salt clung to her skin, sharp enough to cut through the smell of smoke and seafood. He flinched when her hand brushed his as they both reached for the same oyster, and she pulled back for half a second, then held it out to him, her fingertips grazing his wrist when he took it.
He didn’t bolt when the roast wrapped up, when everyone else packed up their coolers and headed for their cars, when she asked if he wanted to walk down the beach to watch the sun set. The sky turned pink and tangerine as they walked, the waves lapping soft at their ankles, and she stopped every few feet to pick up a smooth shell or a piece of sea glass, tucking them into the pocket of her shorts. She didn’t push him to talk, didn’t ask about his scar or his shop or why he was so closed off, until they got to a stretch of empty sand far from the noise of the town, and she pulled a smooth, deep blue agate out of her pocket, held it out to him. When he reached to take it, her fingers curled around his for a full three seconds, no rush, no awkward pullback, and she said she knew what it felt like to carry a mistake so heavy you think you don’t get to be happy ever again.
That was the crack in the wall he’d built around himself. He didn’t say anything for a minute, just rolled the agate between his thumb and forefinger, then told her about the funeral he’d missed, about the 12 years he’d spent punishing himself for a choice he couldn’t take back. She nodded, didn’t pity him, didn’t tell him he was being an idiot, just leaned in until her forehead was pressed to his, her breath warm against his lips. He didn’t pull away when she kissed him, slow, soft, no frantic urgency like the hollow hookups he’d had a handful of times after the divorce. When he deepened the kiss, she sighed into his mouth, let him pull her closer, her hands tangling in the graying hair at the nape of his neck. He’d spent so long thinking any desire he felt was selfish, a betrayal of the woman he’d hurt, that for half a second he wanted to push her away, to run back to his truck and his empty cabin and his quiet routine. But the weight of her hand on his chest, the taste of peach iced tea and butter on her tongue, the way she didn’t flinch when his calloused fingers brushed the soft skin of her waist, was louder than the guilt in his head.
She pulled back after a minute, breathing hard, her cheeks flushed, and said she didn’t do one night stands, didn’t let anyone get that close unless she knew they weren’t going to run the second things got a little messy. He didn’t make any big promises, didn’t say he’d never hurt her, just kissed her again, slow, and laced his fingers through hers, the agate still pressed between their palms. He tucked the agate into the pocket of his worn work jeans when they turned to walk back toward the lights of the town, already knowing he wasn’t going to bolt when she asked if he wanted to come over to her studio for coffee later.
