Ronan O’Malley, 57, has been manning his smoked salmon booth at Astoria’s annual fall harvest festival for seven hours straight, and his boots are caked with enough mud and crushed caramel apple residue to make him consider ditching them entirely when he gets home. He spent 22 years as a commercial salmon fisherman, the kind of job that leaves you with a permanent crease between your brows and a scar slicing through the left side of your upper lip from a rogue winch line, so standing for hours doesn’t bother him. What does bother him is the quiet hum of disappointment he’s carried for 8 years, ever since his wife left him for a real estate agent from Portland, leading him to swear off any kind of casual connection that doesn’t involve selling a $12 bag of smoked sockeye. The air smells like wood smoke, fried dough, and the briny tang of the Columbia River lapping at the boardwalk 20 feet away, and the bluegrass band playing at the main stage has slowed down to a waltz that makes the edges of his flannel shirt flutter in the crisp October wind.
He’s wiping down his cutting board, half ready to pack up early, when a shadow falls over the booth. He looks up, and his breath catches for half a second. It’s Lila Marlow, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the last time he saw her she was 20, passing out slices of wedding cake at his reception, her hair dyed neon pink and a safety pin through her eyebrow. Now she’s 42, her hair a soft auburn cut to her chin, the safety pin gone, a tiny enamel library pin stuck to the lapel of her worn black leather jacket. He knows she moved back to town three months prior to run the town’s public library, but he’s actively avoided running into her, convinced any interaction with his ex’s family would be awkward at best, hostile at worst.
She grins, leaning her elbows on the edge of the booth, and she’s close enough that he can smell pine soap and cinnamon on her shirt, the faint whiff of the same spiked cider he’s been sipping all day. “Heard your salmon’s the best thing at this festival,” she says, nodding at the stack of vacuum-sealed bags behind him. “Figured I’d stop by and see if the hype’s real.” Ronan nods, slicing a thin piece of sockeye off the side of the smoked fillet, spearing it with a toothpick, and holding it out to her. When she reaches for it, her fingers brush his, calloused from hauling boxes of books, warm from being tucked in her jacket pockets, and he feels a jolt run up his arm that he hasn’t felt in close to a decade. He yanks his hand back like he touched a hot stove, his ears going pink, and she laughs, a low, throaty sound that makes the crease between his brows soften a little.
“Easy there, I don’t bite,” she teases, popping the salmon in her mouth, closing her eyes for half a second to savor it. “Jesus, that’s good. Way better than the overcooked salmon your ex used to serve at Christmas dinners.” Ronan snorts, before he can stop himself, the old awkwardness melting a little. He’s always felt a flicker of something for Lila, even back when he was married, the kind of quiet, unspoken attraction he pushed down because she was family, off limits, too young. Now that’s all out the window, but there’s still a voice in the back of his head yelling that this is a bad idea, messy, guaranteed to blow up in his face, leave him back to that same quiet disappointment he’s gotten used to.
They talk for 20 minutes, the last of the festival crowds filtering past them, the bluegrass band packing up their instruments. She leans in closer every time he speaks, her shoulder brushing his when she laughs at a story about him falling off his boat into the river last summer, and he doesn’t move away. She tells him about the library’s new after school program for kids whose parents work on the docks, about the trip she took to Scotland last spring, about the old river cottage she inherited from his ex’s grandmother, the one he used to go to to fish when he was first married.
“I picked up a bottle of 12 year old scotch over there,” she says, tilting her head, her hazel eyes glinting in the golden sunset light coming off the river. “It’s sitting on my kitchen counter right now. Was gonna drink it alone, but I think it’d taste better with someone who actually appreciates good whiskey, not the cheap beer the guys at the docks drink.” Ronan freezes, the voice in his head screaming louder, warning him that this is taboo, that he’s going to regret it, that he’s setting himself up to get hurt again. But then she shifts her weight, her knee pressing against his where he’s leaning against the booth, and he can feel the warmth of her leg through the denim of their jeans, and the voice goes quiet.
He tells his part-time employee, a 19 year old kid who goes to the local community college, that he can close up the booth, hands him an extra $20 for the trouble, and grabs his jacket off the back of his chair. They walk down the boardwalk towards the cottage, the wooden planks creaking under their boots, the sky turning pink and orange over the river, seagulls crying overhead. Halfway there, she slips her hand into his, her calloused fingers fitting perfectly between his, rough from years of handling fishing rope and cutting salmon.
Ronan doesn’t pull away. He squeezes her hand once, slow, and keeps walking, the quiet disappointment he’s carried for 8 years feeling a little lighter with every step towards the cottage, the faint taste of cinnamon and salt still lingering on his tongue.
