Ronan O’Malley, 62, spent 38 years captaining ferries across Puget Sound before he retired two years after his wife, Eileen, passed from ovarian cancer. His biggest flaw, the one his late sister used to nag him about until the day she died, is that he’d rather hole up in his cedar cabin restoring old nautical charts than suffer five minutes of small talk with anyone who might look at him with that sad, pitying widower gaze. He’d turned down 17 straight invitations to the community center’s weekly Friday fish fry before the kid next door left a crumpled flyer taped to his screen door, bold print at the top announcing a tribute to retired Sound ferry workers that night. He couldn’t skip that.
He showed up 20 minutes late, wearing a faded gray flannel he’d owned since his first year on the ferries, work boots caked with pine sap, holding a crumpled $20 bill to pay for his plate. The parking lot was packed, kids screaming as they chased each other around the playset out back, the sharp, greasy scent of beer-battered cod and vinegar curling through the warm late August air. He grabbed his plate of cod, coleslaw, and a side of hushpuppies, leaned against the cinder block wall by the fryer, and planned to slip out as soon as the tribute was done.
He was reaching for a lemon wedge from the plastic bin on the folding table next to him when another hand hit his at the same time. Calloused, warm, nails chipped with faint traces of navy blue polish, the scent of coconut sunscreen and saltwater curling off her skin. He looked up, and it was Clara Mendez. 58, owner of the town’s only kayak rental shop, ex-wife of his old first mate, Jake, who’d left her for a travel nurse 7 years prior. Ronan had spent 20 years forcing himself not to look at her too long, not to laugh too hard at her jokes when she’d bring Jake lunch on the ferry, not to notice the way the sun bleached streaks of honey into her dark hair, the silver streak at her temple that she’d started wearing proud when she turned 50.
He pulled his hand back like he’d been burned, face heating up. He felt stupid, like a teenager caught staring. The logical part of his brain screamed that this was wrong, that he was supposed to still be grieving, that wanting to talk to her, to be near her, was a betrayal of Eileen. But when she grinned, crinkles fanning out at the corners of her dark eyes, and teased him about finally crawling out of his cabin, the tight knot in his chest loosened a little.
The crowd around them was loud, a group of old fishermen arguing over last weekend’s salmon run, so she stepped closer to be heard, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep through the flannel. He could feel the heat of her through the fabric, the faint sway of her as she laughed at a joke about the time he’d accidentally dumped a bucket of chum over Jake’s favorite boots during a rough crossing. She was so close he could count the faint freckles across her nose, the tiny scar above her left eyebrow from the time she flipped a kayak in a squall 12 years prior. Ronan had been the one to pull her out of the 48-degree water, back when he was still on active duty, and she’d laughed so hard she’d snort-laughed when he hauled her up onto the ferry deck, hair matted to her face, wearing a neon pink life jacket that was too big for her.
She mentioned that day unprompted, said she’d never properly thanked him for not leaving her bobbing in the Sound like a lost buoy. When the emcee called his name for the tribute, he barely heard it, too focused on the way her voice sounded when she laughed, the way she kept leaning in like he was the only person in the crowd worth talking to.
After he accepted the cheap engraved plaque they handed him, she nodded toward the trail down to the public dock, asked if he wanted to get away from the noise, watch the sunset. He hesitated for half a second, that ugly, guilty voice in his head yelling that he shouldn’t go, that he was doing something wrong, but then she tilted her head, and he nodded before he could overthink it.
The gravel trail crunched under their boots, the sound of the fish fry fading behind them as they walked toward the water. The sky was already turning soft pink and tangerine at the edges, seagulls crying as they circled above the fishing boats bobbing in the marina. When they reached the end of the weathered wooden dock, she sat down, swinging her legs over the edge, and patted the spot next to her. He sat, their knees brushing as he settled in, the rough wood digging into his thighs through his jeans.
She leaned her head on his shoulder for a split second, then pulled back like she’d forgotten herself, apologizing quickly, but he shook his head, told her it was fine. He admitted he’d been scared to leave the cabin for anything other than grocery runs for three years, scared people would talk, scared he was betraying Eileen by letting himself enjoy anything again. She was quiet for a minute, then told him grief didn’t come with a rulebook, that Eileen would have hated seeing him shut himself off from the world, that she’d thought about knocking on his door a dozen times over the past two years but didn’t want to push.
A group of river otters popped up 10 feet from the dock, chirping loudly as they twisted through the calm water, and she laughed, leaning forward to point at them, her arm brushing his. Ronan looked at her, at the way the sunset was gilding the edges of her hair, the way her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes, and the last of that tight, guilty knot in his chest dissolved. He reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair off her face, his fingers grazing the soft skin of her cheek. She turned to look at him, her smile softening, no trace of pity in her eyes, just something warm, something that felt like home. He laced his calloused, rope-scarred fingers through hers, and didn’t let go when a soft salt breeze rolled off the water.
