Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial salmon fisherman, had spent the three years since his wife’s death avoiding every small-town community event within a 20-mile radius of his Astoria, Oregon, home. His flaw was stubbornness bordering on self-sabotage: he’d turned down neighborly invitations to fish fries, Fourth of July barbecues, even the annual sea glass festival, convinced any joy he felt without his wife was a betrayal. He spent most days hunched over his garage workbench, repairing vintage fishing reels for local kids, his left shoulder still stiff from the 2019 storm that had tossed him across the deck of his boat and convinced him to sell the whole operation a year later. The summer crab feed was the first event he’d caved on, and only because his next door neighbor had showed up on his porch with a six pack of his favorite IPA and threatened to mow his lawn with a riding mower at 6 a.m. every Saturday until he agreed.
He stood by the edge of the beer tent now, paper plate heavy with Dungeness crab, butter dripping down his wrist onto the frayed cuff of his oilskin jacket, when he spotted her. Mara Hale, 58, his late wife’s second cousin, had moved back to town three months prior after a messy divorce from a real estate developer in Phoenix, and Ronan had gone out of his way to avoid her. He’d seen her at the hardware store once, hauling bags of soil for the small vegetable farm she’d bought on the edge of town, and had ducked behind a shelf of paint thinner before she could spot him. The guilt had been sharp, immediate—he’d known her since they were teens, had danced with her at his wedding, but lately every time he thought of her, the first thing that popped into his head was the way she’d laughed at his terrible joke at the funeral, her smile lopsided, a smudge of dirt on her cheek from fixing her truck on the drive over.
She didn’t give him a chance to duck this time. She poured a beer for the guy in front of her, wiped her hands on the cutoff jeans she was wearing under a faded 1986 Astoria Warriors high school hoodie, and walked straight over, boots caked in mud leaving small dark splotches on the grass. She stopped six inches from him, close enough he could smell lavender laundry soap on her hoodie and the faint, hoppy tang of beer on her hands, and held his gaze for three full beats before she grinned. “Thought I saw you hiding over here. Still wearing that same jacket you had when you took the whole crew out fishing for your bachelor party?”
He opened his mouth to make a snarky retort, but before he could, she reached up, her thumb brushing the stubble on his jaw to wipe away a smudge of crab butter he hadn’t noticed. The touch was accidental, light, but he flinched like he’d been burned, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone touch him that casually, that gently, that wasn’t a doctor or a cashier brushing his hand when he paid for gas. The guilt hit harder this time, warring with the sharp, warm spark of desire low in his gut, and he looked away, staring at a crack in the pavement at his feet.
She didn’t push it, just leaned against the tent pole next to him, her shoulder brushing his good right one, and told him she’d found her dad’s old Penn reel in the attic of the farm, rusted almost shut, and she’d been meaning to ask him if he could fix it for her. He made an excuse first, mumbled something about being swamped with repairs for the kids at the marina, but she tilted her head, raised one eyebrow, and said she’d bring a blackberry pie, the kind his wife used to make every August, with extra sugar on the crust. He caved before she finished speaking, told her she could stop by Saturday afternoon.
She showed up ten minutes early on Saturday, pie in one hand, the beat up old reel in the other, and followed him out to the garage. The radio on the workbench was playing old Merle Haggard, sun slanting through the dusty windows, and he pulled out a stool for her before he thought about it. He walked her through taking the reel apart, pointing out the rusted springs, and their hands brushed when he passed her a small screwdriver, her palm calloused from pulling weeds and fixing fence posts, warm against his. She leaned in closer to see what he was doing, her breath fanning over his neck, and he fumbled the small gear he was holding, dropping it on the workbench with a clink.
He didn’t move away when she laced her fingers through his, just stared at their joined hands for a long minute, before he admitted he’d been avoiding her, that he’d felt like wanting to talk to her, wanting to be around her, was a betrayal of his wife. She squeezed his hand, didn’t say anything for a second, then told him his wife had called her six months before she died, told her if she ever moved back to town, she had to make sure Ronan didn’t turn into a hermit who only ate frozen burritos and talked to his cat.
He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months, and didn’t pull his hand away. They finished fixing the reel an hour later, and carried the pie inside to his kitchen, the same Formica table his wife used to set for Sunday dinner still pushed up against the window. He made coffee, she cut two slices of pie, and when she sat down across from him, she wiped a crumb off her lip, grinning, and asked him if he’d teach her how to use the reel when it was warm enough to take the dinghy out.
He tapped the back of her hand with his fork, nodded, told her he was free next weekend, if she brought the beer. She nodded, took a bite of pie, and hummed along to the country song drifting out from the garage speaker. He picked up his fork, cut a bite of the sweet, tart pie, and for the first time in three years, he didn’t feel guilty for looking forward to the next day.
