Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial salmon fishing deck boss, leans against the sticky Formica bar of the Astoria fire department’s annual crab feed, sweating through the collar of his faded Carhartt. The room hums with the clatter of metal crab crackers, the drawl of the local country cover band, and the thick, briny smell of Old Bay and melted butter seeping into every soft surface. He’d retired three years prior, after a rogue wave snapped a winch line and left him with a rod in his right forearm and a permanent limp that acts up when the coastal mist rolls in thick, like it is tonight. His biggest flaw, the one he’d never admit out loud, is that he holds grudges longer than he holds any catch he ever hauled up from the Bering Sea. For 18 years, that grudge has been fixed squarely on Maeve Carter, his late wife’s younger sister, who he’d believed skipped Elara’s funeral to take a pre-paid work trip to Maui. He’d not spoken a single word to her since.
The crowd parts near the entrance, and he spots her immediately. Sun streaks run through her auburn hair, pulled back in a messy braid dotted with bits of sea grass, and her work boots are caked in dark mud from the seal pup rescue she’d posted about on the local Facebook group that morning. She wears a well-worn navy flannel unbuttoned over a fitted white tank, a small silver seal pendant glinting at the base of her throat, and she’s laughing at something the fire chief just said, her head thrown back so he can see the faint smattering of freckles across her jaw he’d forgotten existed. His grip on his beer bottle tightens until his knuckles go white. He should leave. He can leave. He’s halfway to swinging his leg over the bar stool when she spots him, her smile softening for half a second before she starts walking over.
She leans against the bar two inches from his shoulder, close enough that he can smell the sea salt and coconut sunscreen on her skin, no fancy perfume, no frills, the same scent he remembers clinging to Elara’s hoodies when they were in their 20s. When she reaches for the black cherry seltzer the bartender slides across the counter, her knuckles brush the scar across the back of his left hand, the one he got pulling a greenhorn out from under a sliding crate of ice in 2007. He flinches, and she pauses, her eyes flicking up to meet his, warm hazel flecked with gold, no hesitation, no awkwardness. “Figured I’d find you here,” she says, her voice low and throaty, rougher than he remembers from all those years ago, from hours of yelling over storm surges and rescue boat engines.
He doesn’t answer for ten full seconds, his brain warring between the sharp, hot disgust he’s carried for almost two decades and the stupid, unnameable pull he’s been shoving down since the second he saw her. “Thought you’d be off somewhere saving turtles,” he says, the words sharper than he intends them to be. She snorts, taking a sip of her seltzer, her shoulder brushing his again when she shifts her weight. “I was in a car crash on the way to Elara’s funeral,” she says, so quiet he almost misses it over the band breaking into a Johnny Cash cover. “Totaled my Subaru, spent two days in the ER with a concussion. Your mom was so busy arranging the post-service meal no one thought to call you. I tried to reach out a dozen times after that. You never answered.”
The air leaves his lungs like someone punched him in the gut. All that anger, all that resentment, built up over 18 years, melts so fast he feels dizzy. He’d spent so long painting her as the selfish, flighty little sister that he never bothered to check if the story he’d told himself was true. He opens his mouth to apologize, but nothing comes out, so he just shakes his head, staring at the scuffed toes of his work boots. “Wanna step outside?” she says, and he nods, grabbing his jacket off the back of the stool, following her through the crowd, careful not to trip over his own bad leg.
The mist is falling heavier now, dampening the ends of his short gray hair, the distant crash of the ocean mixing with the sound of the party behind them. They lean against the side of the fire station, no space between them now, his arm pressed to hers, the rough fabric of his jacket rubbing against the soft flannel of hers. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words coming out rough, like he’s coughing up sea water. “I should’ve asked. I should’ve listened.” She turns to face him, and her hand comes up to brush a drop of rain off his cheek, her palm warm even in the 40-degree chill, her thumb brushing the scar across his left eyebrow from that 2019 winch snap. He doesn’t pull away. “I know,” she says, and she’s so close he can taste the cherry seltzer on her breath when she speaks.
He leans in slow, like he’s approaching a skittish deer, like he’s reeling in a big catch, no sudden moves, no rush. When his lips meet hers, she kisses back immediately, her hand tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, her other hand resting on his chest, right over his heart, beating so fast he’s sure she can feel it. It’s not hungry, not frantic, just soft, like they’ve both been waiting for this for longer than either of them will admit. When they pull apart, she’s smiling, and he realizes he’s smiling too, the first real smile he’s had since Elara died, no guilt, no shame, just warmth spreading through his chest all the way down to his cold toes.
She nods toward the end of the street, where the neon fish sign for the 24-hour diner he’s driven past a hundred times but never stepped foot in glows pink through the mist. “Wanna get pie?” she says, and he nods, lacing his calloused, scarred fingers through hers, her hand smaller than his, softer, but just as strong, just as weathered from years of working on the water. He holds the diner door open for her, and she brushes her hand against his lower back as she walks past, the heat of her touch seeping through his thick jacket.
He tucks his free hand into his jacket pocket, stepping over the threshold behind her, the smell of coffee and apple pie wrapping around him before the door swings shut.
