Ronan O’Malley is 52, has mended commercial fishing nets for 28 years out of Astoria, Oregon, and has held a grudge against Lena Marquez for exactly 14 years, two months, and 11 days. Stubbornness is his worst flaw, he knows it—his daughter teases him for still boycotting the gas station that overcharged him for diesel in 2017—so he’s spent every crab festival since the divorce deliberately avoiding the section of the beer tent where Lena’s marine rescue team usually sets up their fundraiser tables. He’s got a scar snaking across his left knuckle from a feisty Dungeness crab that bit him last spring, calluses so thick on his palms he can grip wet polypropylene line without gloves, and he’s halfway through his second cold IPA when she pulls up the stool next to him.
The mist off the Columbia River has been sticking to his flannel collar all afternoon, carrying the briny tang of crab pots and fried dough, and when she sits, he catches the warm edge of coconut shampoo under the salt air. She’s 49, runs the local pinniped rescue, has a streak of silver running through her dark curly hair that he doesn’t remember from the divorce hearings, and she holds his gaze for three full seconds before she smirks, setting her hard seltzer down on the sticky counter so close her elbow brushes his bicep. He tenses, ready to get up and leave, but she nods at the scar on his knuckle before he can move. “Looks like that crab you posted about on the town Facebook group finally got its revenge,” she says, and he blinks, because he didn’t know she followed his account.
He doesn’t want to talk to her. She was his ex-wife’s maid of honor, testified in court that he’d missed three of his daughter’s soccer games and her eighth grade recital to take an extra fishing trip up the coast, and that testimony is why he only got every other weekend custody for four years. But he also knows, deep down, she was telling the truth. He was an idiot back then, prioritized overtime over his kid, spent more nights on his boat than in his own house, and he’s spent the last decade making up for it—his daughter is a junior at Oregon State now, spends every summer out on the water with him, mending nets and hauling in crab pots, and he still feels a twist of guilt when he thinks about how he used to act.
He grunts, takes a sip of his beer, and says, “Got him back. Sold him for $27 to a tourist from Seattle.” She laughs, loud and bright, over the noise of the crab cracking contest blaring over the tent speakers, and her knee bumps his under the counter. He doesn’t move his leg away. They talk for 45 minutes, first about the crappy drizzle that’s soaked through half the festival booths, then about the 800-pound sea lion that’s been stealing crab pots off the docks for the last month, then about his daughter’s marine biology minor, and he keeps catching himself staring at the silver streak in her hair, at the faint smudge of fish scales on her wrist from a seal rescue that morning.
When the fireworks start, they wander out of the tent to the edge of the dock, because the view is better away from the screaming kids and drunk festival goers. She trips over a loose tent stake halfway there, grabs his forearm to steady herself, and her fingers linger on the hard muscle under his flannel for a beat longer than necessary, her palm warm even through the thick fabric. He doesn’t flinch. The fireworks paint the river pink and gold, the booms rattle in his chest, and she leans in close enough that her hair brushes his jaw when she yells over the noise that she never hated him, not even back then. She says she testified because she grew up with a dad who was never home, who chose his construction jobs over every birthday and recital, and she didn’t want his daughter to feel the same hollow disappointment she’d carried her whole teens.
The last firework fades, the mist is heavier now, beading on her eyelashes, and he admits he was wrong, that he should have been there more, that he’s spent years kicking himself for being such a selfish jackass back then. She tilts her head up, looks him right in the eye, and he can feel her breath warm against his cold cheek. Then she kisses him, soft at first, like she’s waiting for him to pull away, and he doesn’t. He cups her jaw, his calloused thumb brushing the curve of her cheek, and he can taste the lime from her seltzer on her lips, the faint salt from the river air on her skin.
They stand there for ten minutes, leaning against the dock piling, kissing like a couple of stupid teenagers, until his phone buzzes in his pocket—his daughter texting him a meme about bad fishermen, like she can sense what he’s up to. He laughs against Lena’s mouth, pulls back, and laces his calloused fingers through hers when he tucks his phone back in his pocket. The walk back to his dented old Ford F-150 is quiet, the crowd is thinning out, and a few people they know from the docks glance over at them, eyes wide, but he doesn’t care. He fumbles with his truck keys, the metal cold against his palm, and doesn’t let go of her hand even when he has to turn the lock.
