Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial salmon fisherman out of Astoria, Oregon, had only shown up to the fire department’s annual chili cookoff because his 10-year-old granddaughter had begged him to enter his smoked salmon chili, the one he only made once a year on Eileen’s birthday. He’d spent the past 8 years avoiding any public event that involved small talk, hated the pitying half-smiles neighbors shot him when they thought he wasn’t looking, the way they’d stumble over mentions of his late wife like she was a taboo word instead of the woman who’d once poured hot coffee down the back of his waders for forgetting their anniversary.
He’d set up his crockpot at the last empty table, right next to the booth run by Mia Carter, the 58-year-old county librarian who’d moved to town six months prior. He’d only spoken to her once before, when he’d gone to pick up his granddaughter’s summer reading prize, and he’d written her off as the kind of quiet, rule-following woman who’d never so much as stepped foot on a fishing boat, let alone tasted chili that didn’t come from a pre-made spice packet. He was fumbling with the frayed cord of his crockpot, half-tripping over the leg of her folding table, when his palm brushed the curve of her hip as he caught himself from face-planting into a stack of paper bowls. She smelled like cedar and peppermint lip balm, and she laughed instead of huffing like he’d expected, the sound warm over the buzz of the crowd and the gurgle of both their crockpots.
He mumbled an apology, staring at the scuffed toes of his work boots instead of meeting her eyes, already annoyed at himself for the jolt he’d felt when their skin touched. He’d spent 8 years telling himself he didn’t want anyone else, that looking at another woman was some kind of betrayal, and he’d mastered the art of shutting down any small talk before it could turn into something more. But she leaned over a minute later, holding out a plastic spoon heaped with her vegetarian white bean chili, her boot brushing his calf when she shifted her weight. “Try mine. I promise I didn’t skimp on the jalapeños, even if I skipped the meat.”
He hated vegetarian food. Hated it. But he took the spoon anyway, ate the whole bite, and was surprised to find it was good, smoky and bright, no mushy beans like he’d expected. She caught his small nod of approval and grinned, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes deepening when he pushed a sample of his salmon chili across the table toward her. She took a bite, made a low hum of appreciation that sent a heat up the back of his neck he hadn’t felt in years, and said, “Tastes like the stuff my dad used to make after we’d spend all day fishing off the pier. He was a commercial guy too, ran a boat out of Newport back in the 70s.”
That was all it took. He’d meant to only stay long enough to drop off the chili and head home, but he found himself leaning against the table next to her for the next two hours, swapping stories about the 1979 salmon run that had filled every dock in the Pacific Northwest with fish, about the dumb mistakes they’d made as kids running around the waterfront, about how they both hated the new coffee shop downtown that charged 7 dollars for a latte that tasted like dish soap. He kept catching himself staring at her mouth when she talked, at the smudge of chili powder on her left wrist, and every time she caught him she didn’t look away, just held his gaze for a beat longer than she needed to, her shoulder brushing his when a group of kids ran past their table.
The internal conflict was sharp enough to taste, half-disgust at himself for even entertaining the thought of talking to another woman, half-giddy, quiet excitement he hadn’t felt since he was 19 and asking Eileen out for the first time. He kept waiting for the guilt to kick in hard enough to make him leave, but it never did, not even when the announcer called his name for first place, the crowd cheering loud enough to make his ears ring. He turned without thinking, his arms going around her waist to hug her, and suddenly their faces were inches apart, her breath warm against his cheek, her hands resting light on his chest. He didn’t pull away. Neither did she.
He pulled back after a second, flustered, and trundled up to the stage to grab his prize, a 200 dollar gift card to the local bait shop and a cheap plastic plaque. When he got back to the table, she was holding a cold six pack of the exact IPA he’d mentioned liking half an hour earlier, the cans sweating through the paper bag. He didn’t overthink it, didn’t spend 20 minutes talking himself out of it like he usually would. He grabbed his chili crockpot with one hand, tucked the plaque under his other arm, and asked her if she wanted to head down to the old pier after they packed up, watch the sunset over the water. She said yes, no hesitation, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm when they started walking, her palm warm through the worn flannel of his shirt.
They passed a group of his old fishing buddies on the way out, who hooted and waved, but he didn’t stop to tease them back like he usually would. He just kept walking, her shoulder pressed to his, the sound of her laugh mixing with the distant crash of the waves and the clink of the beer cans in his bag.
