Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial salmon fisherman, has spent the last 12 years avoiding anything that could land him in the small Astoria, Oregon, gossip mill. His flaw? He lets the mutterings of bored retirees and diner waitresses dictate every choice he makes, ever since his ex-wife left him for a forest ranger and the whole town picked sides for three straight years. He sells custom repaired fishing nets out of his garage now, spends most Friday nights camped at the end of the Salty Spur bar, nursing a cold IPA and minding his own business.
The annual Crab Festival parade had just wrapped, and the bar was packed wall to wall with people in crustacean costumes, sunburned tourists, and locals who’d been day drinking since 8 a.m. Ronan had his usual spot staked out, knees aching from three hours of judging float entries, his beer sweating through the paper coaster under it. He’d been dodging the new vet, Elara Voss, for three months, ever since Marnie at the diner had yelled across the counter that he should ask her to the festival dance, loud enough for half the morning regulars to hoot and cheer. He’d waved awkwardly when Elara walked her golden retriever past his garage, made up excuses to be inside when she dropped off extra peach pie on his porch, convinced any interaction would turn into a town-wide punchline.
Then the stool next to him scraped against the linoleum, and she sat down, so close the denim of their jeans brushed thigh to thigh. She smelled like sea salt and lavender hand cream, a smudge of fish oil on the edge of her jaw, her dark hair pulled half up with a frayed elastic. “Mind if I crash here?” she yelled over the Johnny Cash blaring from the jukebox. “Every other seat’s got a guy in a crab costume passed out in it.”
Ronan grunted and nodded, shifting just enough to give her an extra inch of space, though he didn’t really want to. He’d been lying to himself if he said he hadn’t noticed how her eyes crinkled when she laughed, how she carried herself like she wasn’t scared of anything, not even the 70-pound sea lions that hauled out on the docks near her cottage. She ordered a hard cider, leaned in to talk, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep as she told him about the baby seal she’d rescued that morning, tangled in a discarded gill net half a mile up the coast.
He found himself leaning in too, asking about the net’s gauge, how long it would take the seal’s cuts to heal, forgetting for a second that half the bar might be watching. She passed him a bowl of salted peanuts a minute later, her fingers brushing his knuckles by accident, and he felt a jolt he hadn’t felt since he was 22, sneaking his high school girlfriend onto his dad’s boat after dark. The old panic flared right after: everyone’s looking, they’ll be talking about this by breakfast tomorrow, you don’t need this kind of trouble. He tensed up, pulled his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove.
She noticed, leaning back just a little, a half-smirk on her face. “I know you’ve been avoiding me. Figured I’d corner you somewhere public so you couldn’t make an excuse to run back to your garage.” He blinked, stunned, and she laughed, low and warm. “The gossip around here is relentless. I’ve been hearing I’m your next conquest for three months. It’s ridiculous, but I did want to meet you. I saw your net repair setup when I walked the dog past last week. I need a custom soft mesh net to transport injured seabirds, the kind that won’t tear their feathers. None of the other guys in town do work that fine.”
The tension drained out of his shoulders so fast he almost laughed. He’d been so wrapped up in his own fear of being judged he’d missed that she wasn’t paying attention to the gossip at all, that she’d been paying attention to him. “I’ve been avoiding you ‘cause I didn’t want you to think I was one of those old guys who hits on every new person in town,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “Figured you’d heard enough garbage from the diner crowd already.”
She snorted, taking a sip of her cider. “Please. I’ve seen you feed the three stray cats behind your garage every morning at 6. I’ve seen you stop to help kids get their kites out of the dune grass even when your knees are hurting so bad you’re limping. You’re not that guy.”
He agreed to make the net for her, said he’d stop by her cottage the next morning with samples of the soft nylon mesh he used for small fry nets, they could measure out the dimensions she needed. She grinned, leaning in to kiss his cheek in thanks, her glossed lip brushing the corner of his mouth by accident, warm and sweet. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, his hand resting light on the small of her back for half a second before he remembered where they were.
They finished their drinks as the crowd thinned out, the bartender flipping off half the neon signs to signal closing time. Ronan offered to walk her home, her cottage three blocks down the boardwalk, past the empty festival booths strung with fairy lights. She accepted, slipping her hand into his when they stepped outside, the cool coastal air nipping at their cheeks. A few groups of stragglers laughed as they walked past, no one even glanced their way, and Ronan realized he’d wasted 12 years worrying about what people thought, missing out on all the small, good things right in front of him.
He tucks his cold, calloused hand into her warmer, softer one as they step off the boardwalk onto her street, the distant crash of waves drowning out the last of the festival noise behind them.
