Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial salmon fisherman, perched on the end stool of the Astoria waterfront pub he’d frequented since he was 22, the heel of his scuffed work boot propped on the rusted metal footrest below the bar. He’d dropped off a dozen repaired fishing reels at the bait shop next door ten minutes prior, rain soaking through the cuff of his oilskin jacket, the scent of brine and cedar still clinging to his flannel shirt under the outer layer. His left hand, missing the tip of the index finger from a 2009 winch accident, curled around a half-empty glass of Bulleit bourbon, the same drink he’d ordered every Friday for 40 years.
He’d avoided dating entirely since his wife passed from ovarian cancer eight years prior, a stubborn point of pride he’d parroted to every friend who tried to set him up, convinced any spark of attraction at his age was either a fluke or a betrayal of the 32 years he’d shared with his wife. That resolve frayed at the edges the second Lena Marlow rounded the corner of the bar holding a fresh bottle of bourbon, a smudge of charcoal on her left cheek from doodling on her order pad, a thick silver streak cutting through the auburn hair she’d pulled back in a loose braid. Lena was 58, the ex-wife of his old fishing rival Jax Teller, a man Ronan had hated so fiercely through the 90s and 2000s he’d walk out of salmon auctions before Jax could even set foot in the door. He’d barely spoken three words to her in 30 years, even when they’d crossed paths at dockside cookouts and community fundraisers.
She set the bourbon bottle down a foot from his glass, leaning her hip against the edge of the bar close enough he could smell lavender hand lotion mixed with the fried pickle grease wafting from the kitchen. “Still drinking the same swill you ordered when you’d yell at Jax for outbidding you on the prime fishing spots?” she said, grinning, her eyes crinkling at the corners when he flushed bright red. She reached for his glass to refill it, their fingers brushing when he pushed it toward her, the callus on the pad of her thumb catching on the scar across his knuckle. He felt a jolt run up his arm, sharp and warm, and he froze for half a second before pulling his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove.
He mumbled an apology, staring at the grain of the bar top, half embarrassed, half furious at himself for reacting that way. She laughed, low and warm, sliding the full glass back across to him, her knee brushing his under the bar by accident. Neither of them moved away. She told him she’d divorced Jax 12 years prior, after he’d cheated on her with a deckhand half his age, and she’d been tending bar at the pub for six months after moving back to Astoria from Portland. He told her about selling his fishing boat two years prior, about fixing reels for extra cash, about how he still woke up at 4 a.m. every morning out of habit, even when he had nowhere to go. She leaned in closer when he talked, her elbows on the bar, their faces only 18 inches apart, and he found himself rambling more than he had to anyone in years, no awkward pauses, no urge to cut the conversation short to go home to his empty couch.
The conflict warred in his chest the whole time, half of him reeling with a giddy, nervous excitement he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager, the other half disgusted with himself for even thinking about another woman, for even looking at the ex-wife of a man he’d spent decades hating. That tension snapped when the rain picked up, lashing against the windows hard enough to rattle the panes, and the power cut out entirely, the pub going dark except for the dim red emergency lights over the exits and the tea candles scattered on the table tops. In the low light, she reached across the bar, her hand wrapping around his scarred left one, her thumb brushing the nub where his index finger ended. “I always thought you were cute, back in the day,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear. “Even when you were being a stubborn ass and ignoring me at the cookouts.”
He didn’t pull away. He ran his thumb over the small fish hook scar on her wrist, the one he’d heard about back in 1987, when she’d fallen off Jax’s boat trying to haul in a 40-pound king. He admitted he’d noticed her back then too, had avoided her on purpose because he thought it was disloyal to look at another man’s wife, even one married to a guy he hated, even after his wife had passed. She squeezed his hand, and he could see the smile on her face even in the low light.
The power kicked back on ten seconds later, the regulars at the other end of the bar hooting and raising their drinks. She pulled her hand back slow, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, before sliding a crumpled piece of receipt paper across the bar to him, her phone number scrawled in that same charcoal she’d been doodling with earlier. “I get off at 10,” she said. “The clam chowder food truck down the street stays open till 11. If you wanna stick around.”
He folded the paper small, tucking it into the inner pocket of his oilskin jacket, next to the worn photo of his wife he kept there. He nodded, sipping his bourbon, watching her move down the bar to refill another regular’s beer. He watches her tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear when she laughs at a regular’s dumb fishing joke, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t feel the urge to slip out early and go home to an empty house.
