Ronan O’Malley, 53, retired commercial salmon fisherman turned bait and tackle shop owner, only showed up to the Newport fire department’s annual crab boil because his 16-year-old niece had begged him for three straight weeks. He’d spent the last 12 years avoiding all small-town community events like they carried a contagious rash, still stinging from the gossip that swirled after his wife left him for a Portland real estate broker the second he sold his fishing boat to take the lower-stress shop job. He leaned against a splintered pine picnic table, beer sweating in one hand, picking meat out of a steamed Dungeness crab with the other, Old Bay crusted under his fingernails, the sharp briny scent mixing with salt air and the faint tang of diesel from the nearby docks. A cover band hammered out a 90s country track off to the side, kids screamed as they chased seagulls that kept diving for discarded crab shells, and every few minutes some acquaintance would clap him on the back and ask when he was finally going to sign up for the town’s singles hiking group. He’d just grunted and waved them off every time.
He turned to grab a wet wipe from the stack on the table and bumped straight into someone, his sticky, crab-juice-slick hand brushing the bare forearm of the woman standing behind him. She flinched, then laughed, a warm, throaty sound that cut through the noise of the band. “Whoa, that’s the kind of burn you only get from Old Bay and 100-degree crab shells, right?” she said, wiping her arm off on the thigh of her mud-caked work jeans. Ronan recognized her immediately: Marnie Carter, the wildlife biologist the county had brought in three months prior to monitor the local tide pool ecosystems, who’d stopped by his shop twice already to ask about local salmon migration patterns. He’d been brusque with her both times, assuming she was just another academic looking to yell at him about historic overfishing practices. He grabbed a wet wipe and held it out, their fingers brushing when she took it, her hand smaller than his, calloused at the palms from climbing rock faces and handling research equipment. “Sorry about that,” he said, shrugging. “Wasn’t paying attention.”
She leaned in a little closer to be heard over the band, and he caught a whiff of coconut sunscreen and pine, like she’d spent the day hiking the coastal trails before showing up. She was wearing a faded National Park Service hoodie cut off at the elbows, a scar slicing through her left eyebrow, no makeup, a small silver salmon charm on a chain around her neck. “I was actually about to come bother you anyway,” she said, holding up a whole crab and a mallet like she was wielding a weapon. “I’ve been trying to crack this thing for 10 minutes and all I’m doing is sending shell shrapnel into the kid next to me. You got any tips, or do I have to eat pre-picked meat like a tourist?”
Ronan snorted, leaning in to point at the seam running along the crab’s shell, his chest almost brushing her shoulder as he did. He could feel the heat radiating off her, and when she tilted her head up to look at him, their eyes locked for a beat longer than polite, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, crinkled at the corners like she smiled a lot. “City girl move,” he teased. “You don’t slam the middle of the shell like you’re trying to break into a safe. You hit the seam, here, angle the mallet a little. Takes half the force.” He demonstrated, cracking the shell clean open in one hit, and she whooped, clapping a little.
He felt that jolt then, the kind he hadn’t felt since he was 22 and first asked his ex-wife to dance at a bar in Astoria. He immediately pulled back, crossing his arms over his chest, telling himself he was being an idiot. She was 48, five years younger than him, new to town, had a dozen more interesting things to do than waste time with a grumpy ex-fisherman who smelled like fish and beer half the time, who hadn’t been on a date in 12 years. He made a move to turn away, go find his niece, say his goodbyes, but she nudged his arm with her elbow, nodding at the patch of grass where couples had started swaying to the slow ballad the band had just kicked off.
“You dance, Ronan?” she asked, grinning like she already knew the answer.
He snort-laughed, shaking his head. “Haven’t danced since my wedding. Knees are shot from 20 years on a boat deck. I’ll just step on your feet.”
“Good thing I wear steel-toe boots most of the time then,” she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him to his feet before he could protest. He let her, which surprised even him. She rested one hand on his shoulder, the other still laced in his, and his hand settled on her waist, the fabric of her hoodie thin enough that he could feel the warmth of her skin underneath, the faint dip of her hip bone. She was closer than she needed to be, her breath smelling like iced tea and peppermint when she spoke, the sound of the waves crashing behind the stage mixing with the music so he could barely hear anything else. “I heard you can tell how old a Dungeness is just by looking at the pattern on its shell,” she said, tilting her head up at him. “Tell me that story later?”
“Only if you buy me another beer first,” he said, and he was surprised to realize he meant it, that the tight knot of anxiety he carried around in his chest whenever he talked to someone new was loosening, that he wasn’t already thinking of excuses to leave.
The song ended a minute later, and she didn’t step back right away, tucking a strand of wind-tousled brown hair behind her ear, her thumb brushing the back of his hand where they were still laced together. “My place is 10 minutes from here, up by the tide pool research station,” she said, her voice low enough only he could hear. “I have a bottle of Irish whiskey someone gave me for my housewarming. We can skip the beer, if you want. I’ve got a lot more questions than just the crab age one.”
He paused for half a second, the list of excuses running through his head: he had to open the shop at 6 a.m. tomorrow, he had a load of fishing line to sort when he got home, he was terrible at talking to people he liked. Then he nodded, grabbing his oilskin jacket off the back of the picnic table, slinging it over his shoulder.
When she leaned over to pull the passenger door of her beat-up forest green Ford pickup open for him, the salt wind off the ocean tangled her hair in his face, and he knew for the first time in over a decade he hadn’t defaulted to the safe, lonely choice.
