Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired Puget Sound ferry dispatcher, had spent 12 years deliberately avoiding any person, place, or event that so much as reminded him of his ex-wife. It was a stupid, stubborn flaw, one his old ferry crew had teased him for relentlessly, but he’d clung to it like the frayed cuff of his oilskin coat: loyalty, even to someone who’d left him for a 28-year-old kayaking instructor with a man bun and a sponsorship from a craft energy drink brand, felt like the only thing he had control over some days. He’d only shown up to the Vashon Island fire department fundraiser because his neighbor’s kid was in the junior firefighter program, and he owed the guy for fixing his leaky roof the previous spring.
The air smelled like wet cedar, smoked salmon from the food truck, and the pipe tobacco he kept tucked in his coat pocket for cold days. He was mid-bite of a taco slathered in dill sauce when he turned too fast to avoid a kid darting past with a face full of cotton candy, and his elbow connected with a paper cup of spiced hard cider, sending it splashing down the front of a woman’s rain boots. He swore under his breath, grabbing a handful of napkins from the stack on the food truck counter, and looked up to see Elara Voss, the part-time librarian at the island’s tiny branch, grinning back at him, her wire-rimmed glasses askew, a streak of silver in her chestnut hair falling loose from its braid. He’d dropped off dozens of old maritime history books at her desk over the years, but he’d never spoken more than 10 words to her at a time. She was his ex-wife’s cousin.
He stammered out an apology, fumbling to offer her the napkins, and she waved him off, wiping the cider off her boots with the hem of her flannel shirt. “Was mostly ice anyway,” she said, nodding at the cooler by the food truck. “Just buy me another and we’ll call it even.” He did, and they drifted over to the propane heater by the stage, where a three-piece band was grinding through a rough, rowdy cover of *Folsom Prison Blues*. The heat warmed the side of his face that was turned away from the light rain, and he found himself talking without overthinking it first, telling her about the old ferry logs he’d found in his attic, the ones dating back to the 1940s, when the ferries ran all night to carry shipyard workers back and forth to Seattle. She leaned in close to hear him over the music, their shoulders brushing every time someone walked past, and he could smell lavender shampoo and the faint, sweet tang of the cider on her breath.
He tensed up when she mentioned his ex, half ready to make an excuse and leave, but she rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her drink. “Haven’t spoken to her in 8 years,” she said, shaking her head. “She left her second husband, the kayaking guy, for his business partner. Ran off to Costa Rica. Whole family’s pretty much disowned her.” The tight knot he’d carried in his chest for 12 years loosened, just a little, and he laughed, louder than he’d meant to. All that time he’d spent avoiding her, avoiding the library for weeks at a time if he thought she’d be working, out of some misplaced sense of loyalty to a woman who hadn’t thought twice about leaving him, and it had never mattered at all.
The fire department announced the 50/50 raffle a few minutes later, and he dug the crumpled ticket he’d bought on the way in out of his coat pocket. His number matched the one they called, half the pot coming out to just over 900 dollars. He split it with her, no argument, and she laughed, tucking the cash into her jeans pocket. “I’ve been trying to track down that old 1938 Puget Sound ferry history book you were talking about last month,” she said, tilting her head up to look at him, her eyes glinting in the string lights strung above the heater. “This’ll cover the used copy I found online, easy.” He told her he had a first edition in the bookshelf by his fireplace, had picked it up at a garage sale 20 years prior, and she blinked, then smiled, slow and warm. “You could bring it over tonight,” she said. “My place is 10 minutes from the ferry dock. I make a mean pear crumble, got the pears off the tree in my backyard.”
He hesitated for half a second, that old stupid loyalty nipping at the back of his brain, then nodded. He’d spent 12 years closing doors for no reason. He was done with that. They walked to her beat-up old Toyota Tacoma in the light drizzle, and he held the passenger door open for her. She grabbed his wrist before he could step back, pulling him down for a quick, soft kiss, her lips cold from the rain, tasting like cinnamon and cider. He got in the passenger seat, and she turned the heat up, flipping the radio to an old country station. He rested his hand on the gear shift next to hers, his pinky hovering an inch from hers for a full minute before he let it fall against her skin. When she taps the steering wheel in time with the Patsy Cline track playing, her knuckle brushes his again, and he doesn’t pull away.
