Ronan O’Malley leans against a weathered split-rail fence at the Astoria oyster roast, the hem of his frayed Carhartt jacket brushing the tops of his mud-caked work boots. He only showed up because his old deckhand’s 16-year-old kid was raising money for the high school fishing team, and he’d stuffed a $500 check in an envelope before leaving his cabin, planning to slip it to the kid and bolt before anyone could corner him into small talk. The air smells like charred oak, brine, and the vinegary bite of hot sauce, thick enough that he can taste it when the wind off the Columbia River shifts, carrying the distant squawk of seagulls and the tinny twang of a cover band setting up by the picnic tables.
He twists to grab a Coors from the cooler at his feet, and his shoulder slams hard into someone standing just out of his line of sight. He turns to apologize, and the words die in his throat. It’s Maeve. She’s 58, runs a small herb farm outside Seaside, and he hasn’t seen her since his wife Elara’s memorial three years prior. Streaks of silver cut through her auburn hair, tied back with a frayed linen scarf dotted with lavender sprigs, and her fingers are smudged with dark soil, a half-empty plastic cup of rosé in one hand. She freezes for half a second, then grins, the same lopsided smile he first saw when she was 22, standing next to Elara at their wedding in a too-short blue bridesmaid dress, winking when he fumbled his vows.
For 34 years, he’d pushed the flicker of attraction he felt for her down so far he’d almost convinced himself it wasn’t there. He’d called himself a selfish bastard for even noticing her when he was married to her cousin, had avoided being alone with her even when Elara begged him to drive her home after dinner, had lied and said he had boat work to do every time she invited them out to the farm. The guilt had sat heavy in his gut for decades, sharp enough that he’d almost turned and walked away right then.
But she stays, leaning against the fence next to him, their boots almost touching. They make stilted small talk at first, her asking about the old fishing nets he fixes up and sells as wall decor for coastal Airbnbs, him asking about her herb blends that he’d seen stocked at the Portland farmers market on his last trip down to visit his sister. She laughs at a dumb joke he makes about the oysters being smaller than the ones he used to pull out of the river 20 years prior, and her shoulder brushes his bicep, the heat of her seeping through the thick canvas of his jacket. He smells sage and lavender on her, the same perfume she wore to his wedding, and his chest tightens.
The band strikes up a slow, scratchy cover of Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line,” the same song Elara used to sing off-key in the shower every Saturday morning. Maeve tilts her head toward the patch of flattened grass where a handful of older couples are slow dancing, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “You still dance like you’ve got two cinder blocks tied to your feet?” she teases.
Ronan snorts, wiping a fleck of oyster shell off his jeans. “Haven’t danced since our 25th anniversary. Elara stepped on my foot so bad I couldn’t wear work boots for three days.”
She holds out her hand, palm up, her skin calloused from pulling weeds, her fingertips stained green from mint oil. “C’mon. I won’t tell anyone if you step on my toes.”
He hesitates for two full beats, the old guilt flaring for half a second before it fades, soft. Elara always told him he was too hard on himself, that he spent too much time punishing himself for things that weren’t even sins. He slips his calloused, net-scarred hand into hers, and her fingers fit between his like they were made to. They sway to the music, her body a hair’s breadth away from his, her head almost resting on his chest, and he can feel the warm puff of her breath through his shirt. “I always wondered if you felt it too,” she whispers, so quiet he almost misses it over the music. He doesn’t answer, just squeezes her hand a little tighter, his thumb brushing the silver ring she wears on her index finger, a gift from Elara when she graduated college.
The song ends a minute later, and they pull back, neither of them rushing to let go. She lifts her free hand, brushing a fleck of grill smoke off his cheek, her thumb lingering on his skin for half a second longer than necessary. “You wanna get a chocolate milkshake down at the diner on Marine Drive? They still make ‘em with extra whipped cream, like they did when we were kids.”
Ronan nods, not even thinking about the list of boat repairs he’d planned to finish that evening, not thinking about the quiet empty cabin waiting for him down the road. He tosses his half-empty beer can in the recycling bin by the fence, tucks her hand into the crook of his arm, and they walk toward the parking lot, the sound of the band fading behind them, the salt wind tangling their hair together.
