He was wiping a ring of IPA off the counter when he spotted her walking through the crowd, and his hands stilled. Elara was 54 now, her dark auburn hair streaked with sun-bleached blonde, pulled back in a messy braid strung with a single white seashell. She wore a loose sand-colored linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, frayed khaki cargo shorts, and scuffed leather hiking boots, a smudge of charcoal on the edge of her left jaw from the sketchpad tucked under her arm. She’d spent the last two decades traveling the country as a botanical illustrator, he’d heard through the town grapevine, and had moved back three months prior to care for their 82-year-old mom who’d had a stroke. He’d driven past her mom’s cottage a dozen times in the last three months, intentionally taking the long way home from his shop, too stubborn to stop, too scared of what he might say if he saw her.
She stepped up to the counter, leaned in so she could be heard over the band’s rendition of “Free Fallin’,” and her smile was crooked, the same as it had been when she was 16 and snuck onto his fishing boat to sneak cigarettes and watch the sun come up over the ocean. “One cold IPA, please,” she said, and her voice was lower than he remembered, rough around the edges from years of camping in high altitude forests. He grabbed the can from the cooler under the counter, popped the tab, and handed it to her, their fingers brushing when she took it. He noticed the thin scar wrapping around her left wrist, the one she’d gotten when she slipped on the deck of his boat that same summer she was 16, and he’d had to stitch her up himself with fishing line because the coast guard was 45 minutes out. Her hands were calloused at the fingertips from holding sketch pencils for hours, her nails short and chipped, no polish. He could smell coconut sunscreen and pine on her shirt, the same scent she’d worn back then, and something tight in his chest loosened before he could stop it.
“Thought you’d avoid me forever,” she said, taking a sip of the beer, and she didn’t sound angry, just amused. She leaned against the counter, her shoulder inches from his, close enough he could feel the heat coming off her sun-warmed skin. “Heard you still yell at seagulls that steal minnows from your bait buckets. Some things never change.” He huffed a laugh, surprised, and wiped his hands on the faded denim of his work jeans. “They’re little thieves,” he said, and it was the first time he’d spoken to her in almost two decades, and it felt easier than it had any right to. She told him she’d been down to the old sea stack cove they used to fish at the week prior, sketched the purple sea thrift growing on the rocks, had seen his beat up Ford F150 parked in the dirt pull off early one Sunday morning. He went there every Sunday, drank black coffee and watched the waves, had for 17 years, hadn’t told anyone that. “I’m sorry for what I said at the funeral,” she said, suddenly quiet, her eyes fixed on the label of her beer can. “I was grieving, I was stupid, I didn’t mean any of it. I never should have blamed you.”
The knot he’d carried in his stomach for 18 years dissolved so fast he felt lightheaded. He’d replayed that fight a thousand times, had memorized every cruel thing they’d said to each other, had let it fester so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to not be angry at her. “I was an ass too,” he said, and it was the truth. “I shouldn’t have blamed you for the trip. Moira wanted to go, I knew that. I just didn’t want to be mad at her for leaving.” She looked up at him then, her dark brown eyes glistening a little, and she smiled, soft this time, no teasing. “I’ve been driving past your shop three times a week for the last month trying to work up the nerve to say hi,” she said, and she laughed, a quiet, warm sound that made the back of his neck tingle. “Woulda been here sooner if I knew you didn’t still wanna throw me off the nearest pier.”
By the time the festival wrapped up at 9, the sky was streaked pink and tangerine, fireflies blinking in the marsh grass next to the parking lot. He was hauling a crate of empty beer cans to the dumpster behind the tent when he found her leaning against the hood of his truck, holding a crumpled paper bag from the fried cod stand down the boardwalk. “Brought you dinner,” she said, holding up the bag, and the smell of battered fish and tartar sauce drifted over to him, sharp and salty. They sat on the hood of his truck, legs swinging, eating the sandwiches off paper plates, the sound of the Ferris wheel’s creaky hydraulics fading as the last of the crowd headed home. She leaned over halfway through his sandwich, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth to wipe off a fleck of tartar sauce, and he didn’t pull away. Her thumb was warm, a little rough from the calluses, and for a split second he thought she might kiss him right there, but she pulled back, took a bite of her coleslaw, like nothing had happened.
He drove her back to her mom’s cottage 20 minutes later, the truck’s windows rolled down, the salt wind whipping through the cab, the radio playing that same Tom Petty song they’d heard earlier. He walked her up to the porch, the screen door creaking a little in the breeze, and she turned to him, tucking a strand of hair that had come loose from her braid behind her ear. “I’ll bring a thermos of cold brew and my sketchbook,” she said, and he knew she was talking about Sunday, about the cove. “6 a.m. okay?” He nodded, and before he could overthink it, before he could tell himself it was wrong, that he was betraying Moira, he leaned in and kissed her. It was soft, slow, no rush, her lips chapped a little from the wind, her hand coming up to curl around the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. He could taste the IPA and the salt from the french fries she’d eaten on her tongue, and for the first time in 18 years, he didn’t feel guilty for being happy.
He pulled away after a minute, rested his forehead against hers, and she laughed, quiet, against his mouth. “Don’t be late,” she said, stepping back toward the door. He nodded, walked back to his truck, climbed in, turned the key. The radio cut on again, the last verse of “Free Fallin’” playing, and he shifted the truck into drive, the tires crunching over the gravel driveway as he headed for home.
