Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial salmon fisherman, leaned against a weathered piling at the Astoria Seafood Festival, half-empty IPA in one calloused hand, the other stuffed in the pocket of his oil-stained flannel. His forearms were crisscrossed with old net scars and a faded tattoo of a king salmon he’d gotten at 19, the ink bleached pale from 30 years of Pacific sun. He’d been avoiding the festival for three years straight, but his buddy who ran the crab shack had begged him to come help haul ice, and he’d caved, even if he still held a petty grudge against the new county health officer who’d made his buddy drop a grand on upgraded handwashing stations earlier that spring.
She apologized, still smiling, and he grunted a noncommittal reply, nodding at the sauce on her face. She wiped at her jaw with the back of her hand, missed it entirely, and he almost reached over to brush it off with his thumb before he caught himself, stubborn pride rearing up. He still thought she was an overzealous bureaucrat who’d never hauled a crate of crab in her life, until she mentioned she’d cut his buddy’s permit fee in half after she found out he’d been a deckhand on Ronan’s old boat, The Sea Hag, back in the 90s. “That place had the best smoked salmon dip on the coast when I was a kid,” she said, leaning in a little to be heard over the band, her shoulder brushing his when a group of teens stumbled past carrying cotton candy. He could smell coconut sunscreen in her hair, see the faint smattering of freckles across her nose, the way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she laughed at his dumb joke about the health department shutting down the festival for bad chowder.
The conflict coiled tight in his chest, half irritation half something warmer he hadn’t felt in years. He’d sworn off even casual conversations with anyone who might spark town gossip after his wife left him for a Portland real estate agent 8 years prior, had holed up in his tiny cabin on the edge of town and told everyone he preferred being alone. But Clara didn’t treat him like a broken down old fisherman who yelled at kids who walked on his lawn. She asked him about the time he’d sailed The Sea Hag up to Kodiak for a salmon run, listened like she actually cared when he told her about the storm that had knocked out his radio for three days. She stepped closer when a group of drunk tourists yelled past them, her chest brushing his forearm for half a second, and he felt his throat go dry.
She checked her watch, sighed, and said her 20 minute break was up, she had to go do one last round of vendor inspections before the festival wrapped at 6. She hesitated for a second, chewing on the corner of her lower lip, then asked if he wanted to meet her at the old observation pier an hour later, the one that was closed to the public after dark, no crowds, no gossip, just a view of the sunset over the Columbia. He hesitated, every stubborn bone in his body screaming to say no, to go home to his empty cabin and his cold frozen pizza and avoid the whispers that would spread if anyone saw them together. But then she smiled, that crinkly-eyed smile that made his chest feel light, and he nodded before he could talk himself out of it. She squeezed his arm again before she turned to walk away, leaving a faint smudge of taco grease on the sleeve of his flannel.
He showed up 10 minutes early, carrying a six pack of the same IPA he’d been drinking earlier, and a Tupperware of his neighbor’s smoked salmon dip, the same recipe his old crab shack buddy had used back in the 90s. She was already there, sitting on the railing, hat gone, hair blowing loose in the ocean breeze, bare feet swinging a foot above the water. The sky was streaked pink and tangerine, the waves slapping soft against the pilings below. She held out a hand for the beer when he walked up, their fingers brushing when he passed it to her, and she didn’t pull away. He leaned against the railing next to her, their shoulders pressed tight enough to feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton of her dress, and for the first time in 8 years, he didn’t feel the urge to make an excuse to leave early.
