Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial abalone diver, had only agreed to man the Elks Lodge beer tap at the annual coastal crab festival to shut his old diving buddy up. He’d kept to himself mostly since the 2021 dive accident that left a thick, silvery scar snaking down his left forearm, the one he rubbed raw when he was tense. Three years of skipping town events, of turning down invitations to go out, of telling himself he liked the quiet of his cliffside cabin more than any crowded room. The last time he’d been this irritated around a stranger was two months prior, when he’d tried to donate his late father’s stack of 1970s marine biology textbooks to the new town librarian, only to have her turn half the pile down for water damage. He’d left the library red-faced, convinced she was just another uptight transplant who didn’t care about local history.
She grinned first, leaning in so he could hear her over the music, her shoulder brushing his bicep when a group of teenaged boys jostled past to grab sodas. “Figured I’d find you here. For the record, I didn’t throw those books away. The moldy ones went in the trash, but the ones with your dad’s handwriting in the margins? They’re on a special shelf behind the front desk. Kids come in asking about tide pools all the time, and those notes are way better than any glossy new textbook.”
Ronan froze mid-pour, beer foaming over the edge of the cup onto his wrist. He wiped it off with a frayed bar rag, his fingers brushing hers when he passed her the cup, the scar on his forearm tingling like it had been zapped with static. She smelled like pine dish soap and cinnamon gum, her hazel eyes flecked with the same deep green as the kelp beds he used to dive, and she kept leaning in closer than she needed to, like she actually wanted to hear what he had to say instead of making small talk out of politeness.
They talked for 20 minutes over the noise of the crowd, her side pressed to his more often than not whenever the line for beer surged. She told him she’d moved to town six months prior after her ex-husband left, that she’d grown up coming to the Oregon coast on family trips, that she’d always wanted to run a small library where regulars could leave their own books for other people to find. He told her about the accident, about how he’d gotten caught in a surprise surge, had to cut his own line with a pocket knife to get to the surface, about how he’d been scared to get back in the water ever since. He didn’t know why he told her that. He hadn’t told anyone that, not even his own daughter.
When the line died down, she nodded toward the porch, where rain was spattering the weathered wooden planks, the sound of the ocean crashing a half mile away carrying over the twang of the band’s guitar. “Wanna step out? My ears are ringing.”
He followed her out, the cool drizzle hitting his face, the salt in the air sharp in his lungs. She leaned against the porch rail, turning to look at him, and reached out slowly, like she was scared he’d flinch, and brushed her finger along the raised edge of the scar on his forearm. “I noticed this when you brought the books in. You kept rubbing it, like you were embarrassed by it.”
Ronan didn’t pull away. The heat of her finger through the thin fabric of his work shirt made his chest feel tight, like he’d been holding his breath for three years and was just now letting it out. “I thought everyone saw it as proof I was washed up.”
“Washed up people don’t spend 30 years diving the roughest waters on the coast to put their kid through college. Washed up people don’t save their dad’s old books for 20 years just so other people can learn from them.” She paused, her thumb brushing the top of the scar lightly, and he could feel the warmth of her breath on his neck when she leaned in a little closer. “I don’t think you’re washed up.”
He asked her if she wanted to come by his cabin the next afternoon, that he had a whole box of his dad’s old dive logs, no mold, just pages of handwritten notes about every reef and cove for 30 miles up the coast. She grinned, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear, and said she’d bring the hazelnut creamer he’d mentioned liking, the fancy organic stuff that didn’t come in a generic plastic jug.
She leaned in then, pressing a soft, quick kiss to his cheek, the spot warm even through the cool drizzle on his skin. He watched her walk back to her beat-up Subaru in the parking lot, waving over her shoulder before she climbed in, and he rubbed the scar on his forearm once, this time not out of tension, but out of something light, something he hadn’t felt in years.
