Moe Sorrentino, 58, propped his bad knee on the lower rail of the Sandpiper Tavern bar, swirling bourbon over ice while the coastal conservation board droned on about catch limits for next spring. He’d only showed up to argue against the new net restrictions that would put the few remaining small fishing crews out of work, and planned to bolt the second the vote was called. The rain lashed the frosted windows so hard he could barely see the boardwalk lights blinking through the streaks, and the air smelled like fried cod, salt, and the cheap pine cleaner the bar used on the floors.
Then the door banged open, and a woman shook rain off a black leather jacket, strands of silver threaded through her wavy dark hair sticking to her forehead. Moe’s jaw tightened immediately. He’d know that face anywhere. Lila Marlow, 54 by his count, the little sister of his high school girlfriend, the same girl who’d ratted him out for sneaking Karen out to a senior year bonfire, getting him grounded for three weeks and making him miss the state fishing tournament he’d spent six months training for. He’d nursed that grudge for 39 years, even after Karen moved to Phoenix and got married, even after Lila left town for college the next year and never came back, until now.
The bar was packed, every stool taken, and the bartender jerked his chin at the empty seat next to Moe. Lila nodded, and slid onto it, the sleeve of her jacket brushing the bare skin of Moe’s forearm, warm through the thin leather, sending a jolt up his arm he definitely didn’t expect. She ordered a gin and tonic, then turned to him, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners when she recognized him. “Moe Sorrentino. You still look like you’re mad at the entire world.”
He grunted, taking a sip of bourbon. “What’re you doing back in town?”
“Taking over Mom’s beach rental business. She retired to Arizona last month.” She leaned in to yell over a group of fishermen cheering a football play on the TV above the bar, her shoulder pressed firm to his, her breath smelling like mint and the lime wedge she’d just sucked on. “I owe you an apology, by the way. For the bonfire thing.”
Moe blinked. He’d rehearsed a hundred snarky retorts to that exact line over the decades, but all of them died in his throat. “Apology for what?”
“For ratting you out.” She laughed, a low, rough sound that matched the Johnny Cash song playing on the jukebox, and her knee knocked against his under the bar, warm through her jeans. “I was 15, I had the biggest crush on you, and I was mad you were dating my sister instead of paying attention to me. Stupid teenage garbage. I’ve felt bad about it ever since I left.”
He stared at her, the grudge he’d carried for almost 40 years feeling smaller by the second, lighter, like the weight he didn’t know he was holding had started to lift. He’d spent years being mad at everyone who left him, at Karen for dying of ovarian cancer 8 years prior, at his body for blowing out his knee on a winter haul and forcing him off the boat, at Lila for a stupid teenage mistake, and it had never done anything but make him eat frozen dinners alone every night and talk more to his rescue cat than other people.
They talked through the rest of the meeting, neither of them paying attention to the votes, swapping stories about the last few decades: her 25 years working as a backcountry park ranger in Olympic National Park, his years hauling salmon up and down the Pacific coast, the way Karen had loved growing heirloom tomatoes on the deck above his bait and tackle shop. When the meeting adjourned, the rain was coming down even harder, and Lila groaned when she looked out the window. “I walked here. I’m gonna be soaked through by the time I get to my car by the rental office.”
Moe hesitated for half a second, then grabbed his waterproof oilskin coat off the back of the stool. “I got a pickup parked around the corner. I’ll drive you. Gotta stop by my shop first, though, left the heat on for my tabby, Reel, he hates the cold.”
She grinned, falling into step next to him as they ran through the rain, her hand grabbing his elbow to keep from slipping on the algae-slick boardwalk, her grip firm, warm. His shop smelled like fishing line, cedar shavings, and the tuna treats he kept in a mason jar by the register, and Reel came trotting over, rubbing against Lila’s leg before he even said hello to Moe.
She laughed, kneeling down to scratch his ears, and when she stood back up, she reached up, brushing a drop of rain off Moe’s cheek, her thumb grazing his skin soft, slow. He didn’t pull away. He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, his calloused from decades of hauling nets, hers rough from years of clearing backcountry trails, fitting together like they were cut for the same shape.
He made hot cocoa on the small hot plate he kept behind the counter, dumping extra mini marshmallows into both mugs, and they sat on the frayed corduroy couch he kept by the space heater, Reel curled up heavy in Lila’s lap. The rain tapped against the storefront windows, and the streetlights cast gold streaks across the floor of tackle boxes and fishing rod displays. He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, pressing a soft, slow kiss to the top of her head while Reel purred loud enough to cut through the sound of the rain.
