Earl O’Malley leaned against the cinder block wall of the Newport community center, a cold Coors Light sweating in his grip, and tried to look unapproachable. He’d only come to the annual Dungeness crab feed because his old deckhand, Jimmie, had begged, saying if Earl holed up in his cabin one more weekend he’d start growing moss between his ears. The air reeked of melted butter, Old Bay, and salt blown in off the nearby docks, and the country cover band on the small stage was murdering a 90s Toby Keith track loud enough to rattle his fillings. A group of women from the local garden club kept glancing his way, whispering behind their paper plates, and he shifted further into the shadow of the wall, scowling a little. He’d perfected that scowl over eight years of fending off setups from well-meaning neighbors, ever since his wife Linda had passed from ovarian cancer. He’d told himself a hundred times he didn’t need anyone else, that the quiet of his cabin, the work of fixing nets for the younger fishermen, the days he spent out on his small skiff chasing halibut were enough.
The crowd shifted suddenly, and a woman carrying a heaping plate of crab legs stumbled backward when a kid darted between her legs, dribbling a glob of garlic butter straight onto the toe of Earl’s rubber work boot. “Oh hell, I’m so sorry,” she said, leaning in immediately with a crumpled paper napkin to dab at the stain. She was close enough that he could smell jasmine shampoo mixed with the butter on her breath, and her knuckle brushed the bare skin of his ankle above the boot line when she knelt slightly to reach the scuff. When she looked up at him, her hazel eyes had flecks of gold in them, crinkled at the corners like she laughed a lot. He recognized her: Marnie Carter, the new librarian who’d moved to town six months prior, the one who’d set up the free shelf of used books down at the bait shop for the fishermen to grab on their way out to sea. He’d nodded at her a handful of times, but never spoken.
He froze for a second, half ready to brush her off and tell her it was fine, boot was already covered in fish guts anyway, but she didn’t step back like he expected. She nodded at the faded salmon patch stitched to the elbow of his wool flannel, a gift Linda had sewn on for his 40th birthday. “You’re the one who pulled that seal pup out of your gill net during the 2019 storm, right?” she said, grinning. “The kids at the library still talk about it, you’re like their local folk hero.” Earl felt his face heat up, a sensation he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager asking Linda to prom. He hated it, the way his chest felt tight, the stupid flutter in his stomach. He’d spent so long being the gruff, unflappable widower that feeling flustered over a librarian with a smudge of butter on her cheek felt like a betrayal of the promise he’d made to himself to never let anyone get that close again.
He mumbled that it was no big deal, that the pup would’ve drowned if he hadn’t cut it loose, but she kept talking, leaning in a little more when the band cranked up the volume on a slower song. She told him she’d moved to Newport from Portland after her husband left her for a 28-year-old realtor, that she’d grown up coming to the coast with her grandma and always wanted to live here. She asked if he’d seen the bioluminescence that was popping up in the bay this week, said she’d tried to walk down to the pier to see it a few nights prior but got spooked by the dark and turned back. The question hung between them for a second, and he almost said no, almost made up an excuse about having to get up early to fix a net for Jimmie, but then she tucked a strand of gray-streaked brown hair behind her ear, and her shoulder brushed his, and he found himself saying he could show her, if she wanted.
The walk to the pier was quiet, the boardwalk creaking under their boots, the wind off the bay cold enough that she huddled a little closer to him, her arm brushing his every few steps. When they reached the end of the dock, she kicked a small pebble into the water, and the spot where it landed lit up bright, electric blue, rippling out like a tiny neon shockwave. She gasped, grabbing his wrist to point at a school of small fish darting under the pier, the whole stretch of water glowing under them like someone had spilled a bucket of starlight. Her hand was warm on his skin, calloused a little at the fingertips from turning book pages, and he didn’t pull away. He told her about Linda, how they’d come out here on their first date to watch the bioluminescence, how they’d done it every year for their anniversary. Marnie didn’t say anything for a minute, just squeezed his wrist lightly, and said she understood not wanting to let go of the good stuff, that you didn’t have to erase old memories to make new ones.
They sat on the edge of the pier for an hour, passing a pack of peppermints he’d stuffed in his flannel pocket earlier, their knees pressed together the whole time, watching the waves light up when they crashed against the pilings. When they walked back, he held her elbow to steady her when she almost tripped over a loose board, and when they got to the small blue cottage she rented a few blocks from the library, she turned to him, the butter smudge still faint on her cheek, and asked if he wanted to come in for coffee. He nodded, no hesitation this time. He followed her over the threshold, the faint blue glow of the bioluminescence still lingering at the edge of his vision.
