Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial abalone diver turned antique fishing lure restorer, swiped sweat from his brow with the back of a calloused, sun-cracked hand as the last customer of the Oregon coast farmers market wandered off toward the grilled corn stand. The August heat dome had pushed temperatures to 92, unheard of this far west, and the air smelled like brine, charred butter, and the coconut sunscreen the teen girl running the flower booth next to him had slathered on three times that day. He’d already packed most of his hand-carved wooden display cases, the ones lined with velvet that held lures dating back to the 1940s, when a shadow fell over the half-empty table.
He looked up, and his jaw tightened. He’d recognize those silver hoop earrings, that faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, even after 40 years. Maeve Carter, the woman he’d blamed for ruining his senior year of high school, was leaning against the edge of his table, one sandaled foot propped on the lower crossbar, close enough that he could catch the soft jasmine scent of her perfume over the salt wind. She’d left town for Phoenix right after graduation, and he’d never bothered to ask why, too bitter that he’d lost his football scholarship after she’d ratted him out for the senior ditch day trip to the coast. Or so he’d thought.
She smiled, crinkling at the corners of her hazel eyes, and held up a dented 1952 Pflueger lure he’d laid out on the table for half price. “My dad used to have one just like this. I broke it when I was 10, trying to cast off the pier and hit a seagull. He grounded me for two weeks.”
Ronan grunted, not looking at her directly, focused on tying a frayed strap on his tool bag. “Thought you moved to Arizona. What are you doing back?”
“Dad’s got end stage COPD. Moved back in April to take care of him.” She paused, tapping the edge of the lure with a polished nail, and he noticed the thin scar across her left knuckle, from the time they’d crashed their bikes together on the way to the lake when they were 16. “Heard you were here. Wanted to say hi. Also, for the record? I didn’t tell the principal about ditch day. My little brother followed us, was mad I wouldn’t let him tag along, and snitched. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t talk to me.”
Ronan froze, his hand halfway to a fallen lure on the ground. He reached for it at the same time she did, and their knuckles brushed. His skin burned, not from the heat, and he yanked his hand back like he’d touched a live wire. 40 years of resentment, of writing her off as a stuck-up snitch, and it was all based on a lie from a petty 12 year old. He felt stupid, hot with embarrassment, and for a second he wanted to grab his boxes and leave, no explanation, no apology.
Instead he sat down on the folding chair behind his table, and gestured for her to take the other one. He asked her how her dad was, how Phoenix had been, and for the next 45 minutes they talked like no time had passed. She told him about her 20 year career as a wildlife rehabber, about the three-legged coyote she’d raised for a year before releasing it back into the desert, about how she’d never gotten married, too busy chasing rescues across state lines. He told her about his wife, who’d died of ovarian cancer 8 years prior, about how he’d quit diving after a shark bit a chunk out of his left calf, about how restoring lures was the only thing that had kept him from going stir crazy stuck on land.
When the market coordinator yelled that everyone had to clear out in 10 minutes, Maeve stood up, brushing crumbs of the empanada she’d bought from the food stand off her linen pants. She tilted her head toward the dive bar two blocks over, the same one they’d snuck into with fake IDs when they were 17, the neon “Moe’s” sign still flickering above the door. “Wanna get a beer? I’m buying. Make up for 40 years of you being a stubborn jackass.”
He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he didn’t make often these days, and nodded. They walked side by side down the sidewalk, the asphalt still hot through the soles of his work boots, the ocean breeze cutting through the humidity just enough to keep it bearable. She didn’t shy away when their shoulders brushed every few steps, and he didn’t move away either.
They sat in the back booth, the same one they’d sat in that night in 1981, and she ordered a draft IPA, he ordered his usual whiskey neat. The jukebox was playing Johnny Cash, same as it had been back then, and the air smelled like peanut shells and bourbon. She slid a crumpled old photo out of her wallet, passed it across the table, and he picked it up: it was the group shot from that ditch day, him in the back holding a 3 pound bass he’d caught, her next to him, cross-eyed, sticking her tongue out at the camera.
“Kept it all these years,” she said, leaning in so her shoulder pressed against his, their thighs brushing under the table. “Always thought you were cute, even when you were ignoring me in the hallway for no reason.”
His throat went dry. He hadn’t felt this kind of quiet, thrumming tension since he was a teenager, the kind that makes your palms sweat and your ears go hot. He didn’t say anything, just laced his fingers through hers, her hand softer than his but still strong, calloused at the fingertips from years of holding injured animals. She didn’t pull away, just squeezed his hand, and smiled.
They stayed until the bartender banged a rag on the bar and yelled last call. He walked her to her beat up Subaru Outback, covered in dog rescue and ocean conservation stickers, parked at the edge of the lot. She leaned in, kissed him on the cheek first, slow, then when he didn’t move away, on the mouth, soft, tasting like IPA and peppermint gum. When she pulled back, she tapped his chest with a finger, grinning. “Be at my dad’s house at 10 tomorrow. His garage is full of old lures I need you to look at. Don’t be late, or I’ll tell the principal you’re ditching again.”
He nodded, watching her pull out of the parking lot, her taillights fading down the road toward the ocean. He reached up, touched his lips, still tingling, and kicked a loose rock across the asphalt, the sound bouncing off the closed storefronts.
