Ronan O’Malley, 67, spent 32 years trolling for king salmon off the Oregon coast before a crushed knee from a loose winch put him out of the business for good. Now he runs a tiny smoked fish stand off Astoria’s waterfront, stubborn enough to haul 40-pound crates of salmon alone every morning even when his knee throbs so bad he has to stop halfway to his truck and lean against a parking meter to catch his breath. He’s avoided his next-door neighbor Elara for six months, ever since she moved into the blue bungalow two doors down with her stacks of used books and her habit of waving at him every time he pulls into his driveway, too bright, too warm, too curious for the quiet, closed-off life he’s built since his ex-wife left him 12 years prior. He’d heard the town gossip, the old ladies at the grocery store nudging each other when they saw him and her in the same aisle, muttering about how they’d make a fine pair, and it had made his skin crawl. He didn’t need anyone messing up his routine, didn’t need to let someone get close just to leave again.
The September rain spit cold on the back of his neck at the annual Astoria charity cook-off when he tripped over a loose tent stake, his crate of salmon sliders tipping to one side, his knee buckling under him before he could catch himself. A hand wrapped around his bicep, firm, warm, the fabric of a well-worn flannel shirt rough against his skin, and he looked up to see Elara, her auburn hair streaked with gray tied back in a loose braid, rain dots freckling her cheeks. “Got you,” she said, steadying him, her face only a foot from his, and he could smell lavender and old paper and the faint sweet tang of the peach pie she was probably entering in the contest. He tried to mumble a thanks and pull away, but his knee screamed when he put weight on it, and she tightened her grip, shaking her head. “Don’t be an idiot. Let me help you set up your booth. I’m done dropping off my pie, I’ve got an hour to kill.”
He wanted to argue, wanted to tell her he could handle it himself, but the pain was so sharp he could barely speak, so he nodded, and she stayed at his side for the next 40 minutes, handing him paper plates, arranging sliders on the serving tray, laughing at his dumb joke about salmon being smarter than 90% of the tourists that flooded the waterfront every summer. Their hands brushed three times when they passed each other jars of tartar sauce and stacks of napkins, each contact sending a jolt up his arm that had nothing to do with his bad knee. Once, when she reached up to adjust the loose rain fly on his booth, her sleeve rode up, and he saw the faint silvery scar wrapping around her left wrist, the kind you get from wiping out on a bike as a kid, and when he looked up, she was staring at him, a small smirk playing on her lips, not looking away like most people did when he got caught staring. “Childhood crash,” she said, tapping the scar. “Tried to beat my older brother down a hill in Flagstaff. Lost.”
The rush hit at 2 p.m., a crowd of families and fishermen and local college students swarming the booth, and by the time it died down an hour later, Ronan’s knee was throbbing so bad he could barely stand. He leaned against the tent pole, wincing, and Elara was already rummaging in her canvas bag, pulling out a small amber glass jar. “Arnica salve,” she said, kneeling down in front of him, her hand brushing the side of his knee through his jeans when she reached for the hem, and he flinched, not from pain, from the shock of how soft her hand was, how no one had touched him that gently in years. “I’ve seen you limping to your truck every morning. My mom used to make this for my dad’s bad back. Works better than any of that over-the-counter garbage.”
The noise of the cook-off faded for a second, the sound of kids laughing and country music playing from the speakers far away, and he could hear her breathing, feel the heat coming off her shoulders, the rough texture of the jar when she pressed it into his palm. He didn’t argue, didn’t tell her he didn’t need it, just nodded, his throat tight. “Thanks,” he said, and before he could think better of it, he added, “Stick around after this. I got a cooler of cold beer in my truck. We can split a slider. The smoked black cod one’s the best.”
She smiled, standing up, her shoulder brushing his when she leaned in to grab a napkin off the table. “Took you long enough to ask,” she said. “I’ve been waiting two weeks, ever since you left that extra bag of smoked salmon on my porch after my cat got stuck in your oak tree.”
By 6 p.m., the cook-off was winding down, the tents being taken down, the last of the crowd heading home. They sat on the tailgate of his beat-up 2004 Ford F150, sharing a black cod slider, watching the sun dip pink and orange over the Columbia River, the wind coming off the water cold enough that Elara leaned into his side a little, her arm pressed to his. He popped the top on two beers, passed her one, and her fingers wrapped around his for half a second longer than necessary, warm, steady, and he didn’t pull away.
