Ronny Pacheco, 62, retired commercial abalone diver, leaned against the splintered cedar support beam of the Seacliff fire department’s cookout pavilion, twisting a half-eaten burnt bratwurst between calloused fingers. He’d shown up only because the fire chief had bailed him out last winter when his pickup died on the ice-covered mountain pass, and he hated owing favors. The air smelled like charcoal smoke, cheap beer, and the briny tang of the Pacific rolling in 50 yards away, and the pier behind him was swarming with out-of-town teen influencers in neon bikinis, filming TikTok reels of themselves jumping off the pilings into the choppy surf. He’d been avoiding the crowds all summer, preferring the quiet of his bait shack before the sun came up, when the only people around were the old commercial fishermen heading out for salmon runs.
He spotted her across the picnic tables before she saw him. Marnie Cole, 58, the part-time librarian who’d moved to town six months prior, was laughing so hard at a story the fire chief was telling that she snort-laughed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. She was wearing a faded red flannel tied around her waist over a thin white linen tank, and there was a smudge of blue stamp ink on her left wrist from checking out kids’ books that morning. Ronny had been avoiding her for three weeks, ever since she’d come into his shack asking for cuttlefish scraps for the rescue octopus she kept in a tank in her guest room, and he’d caught himself staring at the crinkles around her eyes when she smiled, his chest tight in a way he hadn’t felt since his wife died eight years prior. He’d told himself at the time that it was stupid, that dating at his age was just foolish posturing for people too scared to be alone, that wanting anyone else was a betrayal. He’d left her standing at the shack counter holding a five dollar bill, muttering that the scraps were free, and had hidden in the back storage room until he heard her leave.
She spotted him then, her face lighting up, and she picked up her paper plate of potato salad and walked over, her flip flops thudding against the asphalt. She stopped close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, sweet scent of peach lip balm, and she nodded at the bratwurst in his hand. “Looks like you got the one the intern charred to a crisp. I told him 10 minutes on each side, not 20. Figured you’d end up with the worst one.” She leaned in a little to point at the grease smudge on the toe of his steel-toe work boot, and her upper arm brushed his bicep, sending a jolt up his spine he hadn’t felt since he was 19 and his future wife had kissed him for the first time on this very pier. He flinched, his ears going hot, and he shifted his weight back a little, equal parts embarrassed and annoyed at his own reaction.
She didn’t seem to notice. She sat down on the weathered wooden bench next to him, their knees so close their jeans brushed every time one of them moved, and she took a bite of potato salad, chewing slow. “I’ve been trying to catch you all week. I found a legal-sized abalone washed up on the tide line last Saturday, and I have no idea how to clean it. I don’t want to waste it. I’ll trade you a whole peach pie for the lesson. The same one I brought to the library bake sale last month. I saw you sneak a slice when you thought no one was looking.”
Ronny stared at her, stunned. He’d thought he’d been so careful, ducking into the library after closing to drop off a stack of old diving magazines he’d had sitting in his garage, grabbing a slice of pie off the table before anyone could stop him to make small talk. He grunted, staring down at his boots. “It was good pie. Fine. I’ll show you. But we do it behind my shack, before the crowds show up. No cameras, no idiot kids screaming in the background.”
She grinned, and she rested her hand on the bench between them, an inch from his, her palm facing up. He stared at it for a long minute, noticing the paper cut on her index finger from sorting books, the faint silver scar on her wrist from a childhood bike accident she’d mentioned on her first trip to the shack. He found himself telling her stories he hadn’t told anyone in years, about the time he’d gotten caught in a riptide three miles off the coast, his air tank running low, convinced he was going to die before his dive buddy found him. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to offer empty sympathy, just nodded, her fingers twitching a little like she wanted to reach for his hand.
A group of screaming influencer teens ran past, one of them slamming into the back of the bench hard enough that the whole thing shifted. Marnie fell sideways into him, her hand landing flat on his thigh, her face six inches from his. He could see the flecks of gold in her green eyes, the faint smudge of mascara under her lower lash line, and for a second he froze, every muscle in his body tight, waiting for the wave of guilt he’d come to expect every time he thought about being happy without his wife. It didn’t come.
She didn’t pull away. She held his gaze, her voice soft enough that only he could hear it over the noise of the cookout. “I know you think this is stupid. I know you still wear your wedding ring even when you’re diving. But I haven’t had this much fun talking to someone in 12 years, not since my husband left. You don’t have to make a decision right now. But I’d really like to eat that pie with you tomorrow.”
Ronny stared at her for another long second, then he lifted his hand and covered hers where it rested on his thigh, his calloused fingers wrapping around hers. Her skin was soft, warmer than he expected, and she squeezed his hand back, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
He told her he’d pick her up at her place at 7 a.m. tomorrow, to bring the pie, and he’d have a cooler of cold Pacifico and the cleaning table set up behind the shack, no crowds, no cameras, no interruptions. She nodded, standing up to go get a soda from the cooler by the grill, pausing to brush a strand of windblown hair off his forehead before she walked away.
Ronny sat there for a minute, staring at the spot her hand had been on his thigh, twisting the wedding band on his left hand with his thumb, and he took a bite of his cold, burnt bratwurst. It tasted better than it had a minute before.
