Rafe Dugan, 57, retired US Forest Service hotshot crew superintendent, had only shown up to the Sea Hag Tavern’s annual winter crab feed because his old high school buddy who owned the place had threatened to leave a bucket of rotting crab guts on his porch if he bailed again. For four years, ever since his wife’s cancer took her and he’d packed up his Denver house for the Oregon coast, he’d avoided every town event like they were handing out unpaid overtime. He hated small talk, hated the way strangers stared at the scar that sliced across his left eyebrow from a 2019 fire line fall, hated the pitying looks when people found out he was widowed. He’d planned to eat his crab, drink one draft, and slip out before anyone could corner him to ask about his fire stories. The bar table under his forearm was sticky with spilled beer and old crab juice, the mallet in his hand heavy, wood worn smooth from years of use by bar patrons.
The bar was packed wall to wall, steam curling off stacked crab pots, the air thick with Old Bay, fried hushpuppies, and cheap draft beer. The only empty seat left was at his corner table, pushed tight against the wall, and he’d just taken a bite of sweet, briny crab meat when she slid into it, her shoulder brushing his bicep hard enough that he almost dropped his mallet. He knew who she was: Lila Marlow, 52, the mayor’s ex-wife, the woman half the town gossiped about like she was a fugitive and the other half avoided like she carried a contagious disease. The rumor was she’d left the mayor for a 28-year-old surf instructor, but Rafe had overheard the bar owner say a month prior that the mayor had been cheating on her with his admin for three years before she filed. She smelled like lavender hand soap and salt air, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy braid, a smudge of marine grease on her wrist from her job at the boat supply shop downtown.
She nodded at the half-empty bowl of melted butter between them. “Mind if I steal some? The table over there ran out ten minutes ago.” Her voice was rough, like she smoked a pack a day, but warm, like she was laughing even when she wasn’t. Rafe grunted and pushed the bowl closer, his fingers brushing hers when she reached for it. He felt the callus on her index finger, the same kind he had from holding axes and heavy equipment for decades, and he jerked his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove. He’d not so much as held another woman’s hand since his wife died. He told himself it was loyalty, but deep down he knew it was fear. Fear of drama, fear of getting attached to something that could burn to ash faster than a pine stand in a drought.
They didn’t talk for ten minutes, just ate crab side by side, their knees pressing together under the table because the space was so tight. He snuck glances at her when she wasn’t looking: the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed at a joke the guy at the next table told, the way she wiped crab juice off her chin with the back of her hand, no pretense, no fuss. Every time their shoulders brushed, he felt a jolt go up his spine, the kind he used to get standing on a fire line watching a storm roll in, equal parts adrenaline and caution.
The conflict hit when the mayor showed up, red-faced and drunk, leaning over their table so Rafe could smell the rye whiskey on his breath. “Lila, come home. We can talk this out,” he slurred, reaching for her wrist. She pulled away, her jaw tight, and Rafe felt his hackles rise, the same instinct that kicked in when one of his crew was in danger. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned forward a little, his broad frame blocking the mayor’s view of her. The mayor looked up at him, and Rafe saw the recognition hit, the way his eyes flicked to the scar on his eyebrow, to the muscles in his forearms that still stood out even at 57. “This doesn’t concern you, Dugan,” the mayor said, voice wavering a little.
“Looks like it does,” Rafe said, slow and quiet, the same tone he used when he was telling a rookie to back off a dangerous fire line. He didn’t yell, didn’t make a scene. He just stood up, and the mayor took a step back, held his hands up, and wandered off into the crowd.
Lila let out a breath she’d been holding, and laughed, soft and shaky. “Thanks. He’s been pulling that crap for three months. Everyone’s too scared of him to step in.” She pushed a plate of warm hushpuppies toward him, her knee pressing into his again, harder this time, intentional. “You wanna walk me home? It’s starting to rain, and I don’t feel like dealing with him waiting around my porch.”
Rafe hesitated for half a second, thinking about the cold empty cottage waiting for him, the frozen Salisbury steak he had in the fridge, the quiet he’d hidden in for four years. He nodded. They walked out into the rain, the cold drops hitting his face, her shoulder pressed to his the whole way down the street. Her cottage was two doors down from his, he knew that, had seen her bringing groceries in a dozen times but never worked up the nerve to say hi. She fumbled with her keys at the door, then turned to him, her eyes glinting in the warm yellow porch light. “You wanna come in for coffee? I got fresh pie, too. Apple. Baked it this morning.”
He nodded again, stepping onto her porch, the warm light spilling out the front door wrapping around him like a blanket. He kicks the rain off his scuffed work boots on her wooden porch step, already forgetting how he ever thought staying alone was the easier choice.
