Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial salmon fisherman and current owner of Newport’s smallest bait and tackle shop, had avoided any hint of romantic entanglement for 12 straight years. His ex-wife had left him for a real estate agent in Phoenix, and he’d decided the hassle of learning someone else’s quirks, of fighting over stupid small stuff, of risking getting his chest cracked open again, just wasn’t worth it. The only routine he cared about was opening his shop at 6 a.m. for the early charter crews, polishing his collection of 1960s wooden fishing lures every Sunday, and hitting the VFW fish fry every Friday for crispy cod and a cold Pabst.
The line for the fry was longer than usual that night, a mix of retired loggers, charter boat captains, and a handful of teen volunteers running side dishes. He was half scrolling through a fishing report on his beat up iPhone when he heard her laugh, bright and a little rough around the edges, and looked up. It was Maeve Carter, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the one he hadn’t seen since the last family Christmas he’d attended 15 years prior. She was 54 now, streaks of silver in her wavy auburn hair, a smudge of fryer grease on her left cheek, wearing a VFW volunteer apron over a faded flannel shirt and work boots.
She caught him staring, and her grin widened, crinkling the corners of her hazel eyes. He froze for half a second, half tempted to step out of line and drive home to his frozen pizza, but it was too late, she was already waving him over as the line moved forward. When she handed him his paper plate stacked high with cod and hushpuppies, their fingers brushed. He felt the hard callus on her thumb, the same one she’d gotten back in high school when she’d tried to learn to play guitar, and she paused, holding the plate between them for a beat longer than strictly polite. “Heard you’re still hoarding those stupid old lures,” she said, voice low enough no one else could hear.
He grunted, not sure what to say. He’d always felt weird around Maeve, back when he was married. She’d been the only one in his ex’s family who didn’t give him grief for working 18 hour days during salmon season, who’d laugh at his terrible Irish dad jokes instead of rolling her eyes. He’d felt guilty for even noticing how pretty she was back then, like he was breaking some unspoken rule. He took his plate and headed for the picnic tables outside, trying to ignore the way his chest felt tight, like he’d just run up the pier stairs.
Ten minutes later, she slid into the bench across from him, setting a small bowl of coleslaw down in front of him. “Remember you like extra vinegar,” she said, leaning forward so her elbows were on the table, close enough he could smell her perfume, coconut and sea salt, mixed with the faint scent of dog shampoo from the grooming business she ran out of her house. She’d moved back to the coast three months prior, she told him, after her long term partner had died of a heart attack. She’d reached out to his ex once, to let her know she was moving, and had gotten a one word text back that said “cool” so she hadn’t bothered again.
She teased him about the time he’d showed up to that 2008 Christmas party drunk off spiked eggnog, singing dirty Irish folk songs at the top of his lungs until his ex had dragged him out to the car. He teased her about the time she’d tried to take his fishing boat out alone and had run aground on the sandbar by the jetty. The sun dipped low over the ocean, painting the sky pink and tangerine, and the crowd at the VFW thinned out until it was just the two of them sitting at the table, finishing off a six pack of Pabst she’d pulled from the volunteer cooler.
A group of teens ran past, yelling, and she leaned in closer to hear him talk about the new batch of lures he’d just gotten in at the shop, her knee brushing his under the table. He tensed up at first, that old stubborn voice in his head yelling that this was a bad idea, that she was family adjacent, that he was better off alone. But then she laughed at a joke he made about a guy who’d tried to buy a lure for his goldfish, and the voice went quiet.
They walked down to the pier after they threw their plates away, the wood creaking under their boots, the sound of waves crashing against the pilings loud in the quiet. A wave splashed over the edge of the pier, soaking the hem of her jeans, and she grabbed his arm to steady herself, her hand warm through the thick flannel of his shirt. She didn’t let go, even when she was steady, just kept her hand curled around his bicep as they walked to the end of the pier.
“I thought about you, sometimes, back when I was married,” he said, the words coming out before he could stop them. He expected to feel guilty, but he didn’t, just felt light, like he’d been carrying something heavy for years and finally set it down. She smiled, slow, and stepped closer, so their chests were almost touching, the salt wind blowing strands of her hair against his cheek. “I thought about you too,” she said. “Always thought you were the only good thing about that whole family.”
She leaned in and kissed him, and he tasted Pabst and spearmint gum and the faint salt of the ocean on her lips. He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, the scar on his left knuckle brushing the soft skin under her eye, and kissed her back, slow, like they had all the time in the world.
When they pulled apart, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and grinned. “Got a whole box of vintage wooden lures I picked up at an estate sale last month,” she said. “You wanna come over and look at them? Got more beer in the fridge too.” He nodded, no hesitation, no stupid second guessing. He walked her to her beat up Ford Ranger, climbed into the passenger seat, and she turned on a Tom Petty album, the opening chords of “Free Fallin’” playing low over the speakers as she pulled out of the parking lot, the glow of the pier lights fading behind them.
