Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired Puget Sound ferry captain, had spent the last two years sticking to a routine so rigid he could set his antique pocket watch by it. Up at 6, black coffee on the porch, three hours sanding or rewiring the 1972 Boston Whaler he was restoring in his backyard, a fish sandwich and a single beer at the VFW for lunch, then a walk along the shore before sunset. His biggest flaw, the one Eileen had teased him about for 38 years of marriage, was that he’d always put everyone else’s comfort ahead of his own. He’d let his lazy first mate get away with skipping safety checks for a decade to avoid hurting the guy’s feelings, he’d sat through three hours of his sister-in-law’s terrible romance novel book club every month just so Eileen wouldn’t have to go alone, he hadn’t so much as looked at another woman since Eileen died of ovarian cancer two years prior, even when the widowed baker down the street kept slipping extra chocolate chip cookies into his order.
The July street fair was the first thing he’d broken his routine for all summer. The air smelled like fried dough, salt off the sound, and hickory smoke from the salmon stand, and the bluegrass band set up near the entrance was playing a cover of a Johnny Cash song Eileen had loved. He was wearing his faded Coast Guard ball cap, the brim frayed at the edges, and his work boots still had flecks of marine paint on the toes from sanding the Whaler’s hull that morning. He was halfway through the line for a smoked salmon sandwich when a woman next to him dropped a glass jar of pickled asparagus, and he bent to grab it before it could shatter on the asphalt.
Their hands brushed when he handed it to her, and he froze for half a second. He knew her. Clara, his old first mate’s ex-wife. They’d divorced six months prior, after 19 years of marriage, and Ronan had only ever spoken to her a handful of times, usually when she dropped off lunch for her ex at the ferry yard. She was wearing a linen sundress the color of sea glass, her gray-streaked brown hair pulled back in a loose braid, and she smelled like coconut sunscreen and lemon drops. He could feel the callus on her left thumb, the one she got from tending to her rose garden, against his palm when she took the jar.
They made small talk at first, the kind of polite chit chat you have with someone you’ve known in passing for decades. She complained about the fair’s lemonade being too sweet, he complained about the price of the salmon sandwiches, and they ended up grabbing a spot at a splintered pine picnic table off to the side, away from the crowd. Ronan’s chest felt tight the whole time, half guilt, half something sharper he didn’t want to name. It felt wrong, sitting here laughing with a woman who had been his coworker’s wife for most of his adult life, like he was breaking some unwritten rule he’d spent his whole life abiding by. He kept glancing over his shoulder, half convinced someone he knew would see them and talk, half convinced Eileen was watching from somewhere, shaking her head at him.
Clara didn’t seem to care. She told him about how her ex had hidden all her favorite gardening shears a week before their divorce because he was mad she spent more time in the rose beds than with his friends. She told him she’d always thought he was the only decent guy at the ferry yard, the only one who didn’t make stupid jokes about how she should “keep her man in line” when he showed up to work hungover. The sun dipped below the sound while they talked, painting the sky pink and orange, and the first firework went off with a loud pop overhead, painting the darkening sky bright blue.
A group of kids, hopped up on cotton candy and soda, came sprinting past the picnic table, and Clara leaned into him to avoid getting knocked over, her shoulder pressing firm against his chest. He didn’t move away. She tilted her head up to look at him, her hazel eyes flecked with gold from the fireworks, and they held eye contact for three full seconds, longer than any polite conversation required. “I’ve wanted to talk to you alone for months,” she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear it over the noise of the crowd and the fireworks.
Ronan didn’t say anything. He lifted his hand, brushing a stray strand of hair that had fallen loose from her braid off her face, his calloused fingers lingering for a beat against the soft skin of her jaw. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin layer of sunscreen she’d put on that morning, and the tightness in his chest loosened, just a little. He’d spent so long playing by everyone else’s rules, so long worrying about what other people would think, so long convinced he didn’t get to be happy after Eileen was gone, that he’d forgotten what it felt like to want something for himself.
He offered to walk her back to her car, but she asked if they could go to his house instead, said she’d heard his dock had the best view of the fireworks on the whole sound. He grabbed her jar of pickled asparagus and her half-eaten bag of kettle corn, and she slipped her hand into his as they crossed the street, her small, warm hand fitting perfectly in his bigger, calloused one. He didn’t hesitate to lace their fingers together. They passed the baker’s shop on the way, and he didn’t even glance over, didn’t care who saw them.
When they reached the edge of his dock, the last of the big fireworks exploded overhead, painting the water bright red. Clara stepped closer to him, her chest brushing his, and she tilted her chin up. He leaned in, the faint taste of her cherry snow cone mixing with the salt off the sound on his lips.
