Ronan O’Malley, 57, would’ve rather spent the Saturday mending a broken Penn reel in his garage than navigating the sticky, screaming chaos of the town’s annual summer street fair, but his 72-year-old next door neighbor had showed up on his porch at 8 a.m. with a tin of pecan pie and a plea for help hauling her homemade jam booth supplies, and he’d never been able to say no to Marnie. He’d ditched the booth an hour earlier, ducking out when Marnie started rambling about her niece who was “just his type,” and propped himself against the side of a grilled corn truck, sipping a root beer he’d grabbed from a cooler by the register. He didn’t drink beer in public anymore, not after the DUI four years back that cost him his commercial fishing license for six months, a low point he still couldn’t talk about without his jaw tightening.
Then the collision happened. A kid in a neon dinosaur costume darted under the feet of a woman carrying a stack of neon pink library event flyers, and she tripped over the edge of a stroller parked by the curb, tumbling forward fast. Ronan moved without thinking, catching her elbow first, then wrapping one calloused hand around her waist to steady her when she wobbled, the soft cotton of her navy linen dress bunching under his palm. She smelled like lavender laundry soap and lemon furniture polish, a few strands of wavy auburn hair streaked with silver brushing his wrist as she righted herself.
When she looked up, he recognized her immediately. Clara Bennett, 52, the new county librarian who’d moved to town three months prior. He’d checked out a tattered 1972 memoir about Alaskan salmon fishing from her branch two weeks earlier, and they’d had a stilted, 90 second conversation about the best spots to catch king salmon off the Oregon coast before he’d mumbled a thank you and bolted out the door, convinced he’d rambled too much, sounded like a lonely old fool.
“Wow, thanks,” she said, grinning, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners as she brushed flyaway hair off her face. She didn’t step back, even when he released her waist, the toes of her white canvas sneakers almost touching his scuffed work boots. “I swear, these street fairs are a minefield for anyone carrying more than one thing. I’m Clara, by the way. You checked out *Trollers Tales* a couple weeks back, right? I left a note in the return slot with another book recommendation for you, but I never saw you come back for it.”
Ronan blinked, heat creeping up his neck. He’d dropped the book in the after-hours slot at 10 p.m. after a long day fixing reels, too tired to check for notes, too stubborn to hang around the library long enough to make small talk. “I, uh, didn’t see it,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Was busy with work.”
He groaned, rolling his eyes. Of course Marnie had been meddling. Part of him wanted to make an excuse, leave right then, go home to his quiet garage and his cold root beer and not deal with the weird flutter in his chest that came with someone actually paying attention to him, asking about his interests. But another part of him couldn’t stop staring at the smattering of freckles across her nose, the chipped mint green nail polish on her fingers as she tucked the flyers under one arm. “You wanna get a drink?” he blurted out, before he could talk himself out of it. “Non-alcoholic, for me. They’ve got hard cider at the beer garden, if you want.”
She nodded, and they walked side by side through the crowd, their shoulders brushing every few steps when people squeezed past. They grabbed their drinks and sat at a splintered wooden picnic table on the edge of the field, their knees knocking under the table when they both shifted to get comfortable. She leaned in close when she talked, her shoulder pressed tight to his bicep to hear him over the noise, and he told her stories about his days on the troller, about the time a 42 pound king salmon bit through his line mid-reel and smacked him straight in the face, so hard he saw stars for 10 minutes. She laughed so hard she snort-laughed, and he didn’t even feel embarrassed telling the story, for the first time in years.
The first firework went off just as he finished the story, a burst of deep red lighting up the whole sky, and the crowd around them whooped, standing up en masse to get a better view. Clara grabbed his hand without thinking, lacing her fingers through his, and pulled him up with her, tugging him through the crowd to a spot closer to the launch pad, so they could see without people blocking their view. Ronan didn’t pull his hand away. His palms were sweaty, his heart hammering so hard he could hear it over the boom of the fireworks, but he didn’t let go.
When the next firework went off, blue and gold, painting the whole sky light, she turned to look at him, her face glowing, and she didn’t pull away when he leaned down to kiss her. It was soft, slow, no rush, her lips tasting like cinnamon and hard cider, her free hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the short graying hair at his nape. His hands rested on her hips, the soft fabric of her dress warm under his palms, and for the first time in six years, he didn’t feel like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, like someone was going to leave him the second they realized how boring he was, how much of his life revolved around fishing reels and old books and quiet nights.
The fireworks ended 10 minutes later, the crowd dispersing, chatter and laughter echoing through the streets as people headed home. They walked to her beat up Subaru parked three blocks over, and she leaned against the door when they got there, still holding his hand. “I’ve got that other fishing book at my place,” she said, tilting her head up, grinning. “And a pot of good coffee. You wanna come over tomorrow afternoon? I can even make you pecan pie, if you want. Marnie gave me her recipe last week.”
Ronan nodded, no hesitation this time, no voice in his head telling him he was making a fool of himself. She squeezed his hand before she climbed in the car, rolling the window down as she turned the key in the ignition.
He stood on the curb long after her taillights faded around the corner, the faint lavender scent of her dress still clinging to the cuff of his worn flannel shirt.
