Ronan O’Malley leaned against the warped folding table at the Newport annual crab feed, beer sweating through the red solo cup in his left hand, butter glistening on the scar across his right knuckle. He’d shown up only because his buddy owned the food truck catering the event, had planned to stay an hour max, crack two crabs, avoid the group of retired nurses who kept trying to corner him and ask if he was finally “ready to settle down.” He’d spent 38 years as a commercial salmon fisherman, now ran the tiny bait and tackle shop off the harbor, 62 years old and stubborn as the barnacles crusted on the dock pilings, still holding a grudge against his ex-wife Diane for leaving him 12 years prior for a guy who wore loafers to work and didn’t reek of fish guts three days out of five.
She reached for a crab cracker at the exact same time he did, their knuckles brushing, and she huffed a laugh, holding eye contact longer than she should have, the corner of her mouth tilted up like she knew exactly how flustered he was. “You still leave the back light on at the shop for guys who get stranded after dark?” she asked, and he blinked, surprised she remembered. He nodded, and she leaned in a little closer, the smell of cedar and coconut sunscreen wrapping around him, cutting through the garlic and butter and beer fumes of the tent. “I’m back for three months, studying the sea lion colony that moved into the jetty last winter. Staying in mom’s old cottage down the road from your place.”
He should have left right then. He knew what people in this town would say, the gossip that would spread faster than a forest fire if anyone saw him talking to his ex-wife’s little sister. He’d spent 12 years avoiding any kind of romantic attention, convinced anyone who looked at him twice only wanted free fishing gear or a place to crash during the peak salmon run, and this felt like the worst possible idea, a line he had no business crossing, even if his marriage had been dead for years before Diane left. But he stayed, passing her an extra lemon wedge, listening as she told him about the tags she was putting on the sea lions, about the time one had stolen her hat right off her head while she was out in a kayak.
By the time the fundraiser wrapped up, rain was pouring down so hard the string lights strung across the tent were flickering, and Lila groaned when she patted her pockets, realizing she’d left her truck keys on the kitchen counter of her cottage. Ronan hesitated for half a second before offering her a ride, and she accepted, tucking herself under the edge of his old wool jacket as they ran to his beat-up 2008 F150, the heater on the passenger side busted, so he draped his flannel over her shoulders when she shivered.
When they pulled up to the cottage, the front window was stuck open, rain blowing onto the kitchen sill, and she asked him to come in and help her force it shut, her voice soft, her hand brushing his arm when he stepped out of the truck. He knew it was an excuse, knew what she was asking for, and for a second he almost turned around, drove home, locked himself in his empty house like he always did. But she was looking up at him, her eyes dark in the porch light, and he couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like he wasn’t just the grumpy old bait shop guy.
He followed her inside, the cottage smelling like cinnamon and old books, and after he pushed the window shut and latched it, she pulled a bottle of bourbon out of the cabinet, poured them both two fingers, no ice. She stepped close enough that he could feel the heat coming off her skin, and she reached out, brushing her thumb across the scar on his right knuckle, the one he’d gotten when a winch snapped on his boat back in 2012. “I always thought that scar was so cool when I was a kid,” she said, and he didn’t overthink it, leaned down and kissed her, her lips soft, tasting like butter and bourbon and the peppermint gum she’d been chewing all night.
He woke up the next morning to the sound of sea lions barking off the coast, sunlight filtering through the kitchen window, the smell of pancakes and bacon drifting from the stove. Lila was standing at the counter wearing his flannel, flipping a pancake, and when she turned around, she held up a mug of black coffee, exactly how he liked it. He picked up his phone, saw a text from Diane asking if he’d seen her sister, and he set it back down on the coffee table without answering, leaning back to watch a group of seagulls dart across the sky over the ocean.
