Ray Voss, 62, spent 37 years running a gillnetter out of Coos Bay before selling the boat two years back, when his arthritis got so bad he could barely haul in a 20-pound king salmon by himself. He’s stubborn to a fault, hates asking for help even when his left knee locks up on cold mornings, still sleeps in the same flannel sheets he and his wife Ellen bought the year they got married, 39 years back. Ellen died of ovarian cancer 8 years ago, and the only people who showed up every weekend to help him patch the boat’s hull, restock his cooler with beer, and drag him out to dinner when he’d spent three days alone on the water were his fishing partner Jake Carter and Jake’s wife Marnie. He’s carried a quiet, guilt-ridden crush on Marnie since he was 24, the day she showed up to the docks in cutoff shorts and a faded Fleetwood Mac tee to move into Jake’s trailer, and he’s never breathed a word of it to anyone, figured it was the lowest form of betrayal to even think about your best friend’s wife that way.
He’s lingering by the craft beer tent at the county summer fair, avoiding the group of retirees from his apartment complex who keep waving him over to their picnic table, when he smells coconut sunscreen. Someone bumps his elbow hard enough that half his IPA sloshes over the edge of the flimsy plastic cup, soaking the knee of his faded Carhartt work jeans. He looks down ready to grumble, and there she is. Marnie’s 54 now, silver streaks threading through her dark chestnut hair, the same crinkles around her hazel eyes when she laughs that she had the day they met. She’s alone, holding a half-eaten elephant ear dusted with cinnamon, and she apologizes so fast she almost drops her snack. She says Jake moved out three weeks prior, filed for divorce out of nowhere, said he wanted to move to Alaska to fish for sablefish alone, no strings attached. She’s still reeling, she says, came to the fair to get out of the empty house for a few hours.
They stand a foot apart at first, stiff, like they’re both scared to cross some unspoken line, until a group of kids sprint past with dripping cotton candy, and Marnie steps close to avoid getting hit, her shoulder pressing firm to his bicep. He can feel the heat of her through his thin gray flannel shirt, can smell the coconut sunscreen mixed with the cinnamon from her elephant ear and the faint briny tang of salt air blowing in off the bay. He doesn’t step away. They talk about the boat first, then about Ellen, then about the quarter horse she just bought, the one that keeps throwing her into the dirt when she tries to canter. She laughs when he admits he still sleeps on the same side of the bed he always has, even though there’s no one else to take the other half, and she leans in when she laughs, so close he can feel her breath on his neck. She mentions she’s been fixing up the old river cabin Jake left her up by the Umpqua, and the kitchen sink faucet’s been leaking for a week, she can’t get the rusted valve loose no matter how hard she yanks on it. He offers to bring his wrenches up to fix it before he even thinks about what he’s saying, immediately feels a twist of guilt in his gut, like he’s taking advantage of a bad situation. She smiles, soft, and says she’d like that, and when she reaches for a napkin to wipe the beer off his jeans, her hand brushes his, her fingers calloused from mucking out horse stalls, soft at the knuckles.
They walk the fairgrounds together after that, split an order of fried cheese curds so hot they burn the roof of his mouth, and she laughs so hard at the face he makes when he bites into one that a snort comes out, which makes him laugh too. When he gets a crumb of curd stuck in his gray beard, she reaches up without thinking to brush it off, her thumb grazing his jawline, and he doesn’t flinch. They stop at the edge of the fairgrounds, overlooking the bay, as the sun dips low, painting the water streaks of tangerine and rose, the distant whine of the Ferris wheel mixing with the crash of the waves. She says she’s known he had a crush on her for 40 years. Jake knew too, she says, joked about it all the time when they were out at sea, said if he ever messed up bad enough to lose her, Ray was the only guy he’d trust to take care of her. Ray’s throat goes tight, all that guilt he’s carried for four decades melting fast into something warm, something he hasn’t felt since Ellen died: hope. She says she’s spent just as long wondering what it would be like to spend a day on the water with him, no Jake along, no spouses, no unwritten rules about who you’re allowed to want.
He asks her if she wants to get dinner at the little seafood shack off the highway, the one with weathered picnic tables on the dock that serves clam chowder so thick you can stand a spoon up in it. She says yes, laces her fingers through his, her hand fitting perfectly in his, calluses and all. He doesn’t care if any of the retirees from his apartment see them, doesn’t care if word gets back to Jake, doesn’t care about any of the stupid rules he’s spent his whole life following. He squeezes her hand once, turns toward the parking lot, his work boots crunching loud on the loose gravel of the path.
