Ronan O’Malley, 62, spent 38 years running a commercial salmon troller out of Astoria before he sold the boat two years back, and he’d spent every minute since doing his damnedest to avoid neighborhood functions. His sister had cornered him at the grocery store that morning, shoving a plastic bag of dill potato salad in his arms and threatening to drop off her 120 pound golden retriever at his house for a week if he skipped the Fourth of July block party, so he’d caved, dressed in his faded oilskin jacket and scuffed work boots, and found the quietest corner of the park to park himself on a splintered picnic table bench.
The air smelled like charcoal, grilled bratwurst slathered in sauerkraut, and the briny, sharp tang of the Columbia River rolling half a block away. Kids screamed as they chased each other with sparklers, a cover band down the street fumbled through a Johnny Cash song, and he’d just cracked open a cold beer when he smelled jasmine over the smoke, and looked up to see his next door neighbor leaning against the table two feet away.
He’d only ever waved at her through the fence in the three months she’d lived in the little blue house next to his, knew her name was Elara, 58, that she repaired and rebound rare old books for a living, and that he’d actively avoided striking up a conversation when he found out she was Mike Carter’s ex-wife. Mike had been his deck hand for 11 years, until they’d had a blowout fight over a misplaced 500 pound king salmon catch in 2011, hadn’t spoken since. Ronan’s biggest flaw, one he’d owned for decades, was holding grudges so tight they cut off circulation to the rest of his life, a habit that had only gotten worse after his wife died of lung cancer eight years prior.
She reached for the same bowl of potato salad he was reaching for, their knuckles brushing, and he flinched like he’d touched a live wire. Her hands were dotted with navy ink stains, calloused at the fingertips from folding leather and stitching spines, freckles scattered across her knuckles from working out on her back porch in the sun. She laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the noise of a firecracker popping 10 feet away, and held his eye contact longer than strictly polite. “Figured I’d find you hiding over here. Saw you through the window this morning, looking like you were being dragged to a dentist appointment when your sister banged on your door.”
He grunted, shifting a little closer so a group of teens carrying coolers could squeeze past, their knees brushing under the table. He told himself he should leave, that getting mixed up with Mike’s ex was the kind of small-town drama he’d spent his whole retirement avoiding, that the flutter in his chest was just indigestion from the bratwurst he’d eaten 10 minutes earlier. But she asked about the carved cedar figurehead he had propped on his front porch, the one he’d carved himself when he was 22, and he found himself talking, telling her about how he’d made it for his first boat, named after his mom who’d died when he was 19.
They talked for an hour, the gap between them shrinking inch by inch, until their shoulders were pressed together when they leaned in to hear each other over the band. She told him she’d divorced Mike three years prior, that he’d cheated on her with a bartender in Seaside, that she’d moved to Astoria to get away from all that noise, that she’d been nervous to talk to Ronan because she’d heard about the fight, thought he might hate her by association. Ronan felt that old, familiar twist of anger in his gut at the mention of Mike, but it faded fast when she brushed a strand of gray-streaked auburn hair behind her ear, her forearm brushing his bicep.
Someone yelled that the fireworks over the river were starting, and the crowd surged toward the pier. She grabbed his hand without asking, her palm warm and a little sticky from the cherry seltzer she’d been drinking, and pulled him along with the crowd, and he didn’t pull away. They squeezed through to the rail, standing so close their hips were pressed together, the cold metal of the rail digging into his forearm where it rested next to hers.
The first firework exploded overhead, painting the sky bright red, and she leaned in so her mouth was right next to his ear, her breath warm against his jaw. “I’ve been wanting to ask you to take me out on that little dinghy of yours for weeks,” she said, loud enough to hear over the boom. “Wanted to see if you’re as good at fishing as everyone says.”
He turned to look at her, the light from a blue firework catching the gold flecks in her green eyes, and all the stupid excuses he’d been telling himself for months—he was too old, he was fine alone, the drama wasn’t worth it—melted away like ice on a hot dock. He told her he’d pick her up at 6 a.m. the next Saturday, bring the good craft beer he kept stashed in his garage fridge, and she smiled, leaning in until her lips were almost touching his.
The grand finale started, a cascade of gold and red sparks lighting up the whole river, and she kissed him, tasting like cherry seltzer and peppermint, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, calloused fingertips brushing the stubble on his jaw. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer, not caring that half the people on the pier were people he’d known his whole life, not caring that someone would probably tell Mike about it eventually. A kid ran past waving a sparkler, yelling so loud it cut through the final boom of the last firework, and Ronan’s hand curled around the small of her back, holding her steady against him as the sky faded back to dark.
