Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial salmon fisherman, had been dragged to the Astoria waterfront beer garden by his old deckhand, against his explicit wishes. He’d avoided the weekly summer event for seven straight years, ever since his wife Maeve died of ovarian cancer, convinced it was just a gathering of bored retirees and overzealous tourists chasing cheap, temporary highs. He leaned against the splintered edge of a pine picnic table, sipping a cold IPA that bit at the back of his throat, salt from the Columbia River breeze sticking to the sweat on his forearms. A Tom Petty cover band droned in the background, seagulls squawked over discarded crab shells scattered at his feet, and he was half a second from making an excuse to leave when the air shifted.
She tripped over a dented blue cooler at his feet, stumbled forward, and the tray of oyster shooters she was carrying sloshed just enough to send a drop of hot sauce splattering on the front of his worn gray flannel, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show the faded salmon tattoo wrapping around his left bicep. Her hand slammed into his chest first to steady herself, palm warm through the thin cedar-scented fabric, then her forearm brushed his, her nails chipped with navy polish, calloused from stacking shelves all week. He recognized her before she looked up: Elara Voss, Maeve’s younger cousin, 48, who’d moved back to town two months prior to open a used bookstore on the main strip, the one person he’d gone out of his way to avoid every time he’d walked past the storefront. She smelled like coconut sunscreen and jasmine perfume, the same scent Maeve used to wear on their beach trips in the 90s, and for half a second he felt a sharp twist of guilt in his gut, like he was doing something unforgivable just standing this close to her.
She lifted her chin, her dark brown eyes crinkling at the corners when she spotted the scar across his left eyebrow, the one he’d gotten when a rogue wave slammed him into the wheelhouse in 2004. “Well look who finally left his boat,” she said, her voice louder than necessary over the band, leaning in so her shoulder was pressed to his, her hair brushing the side of his neck. “I was starting to think you’d welded yourself to the hull of that old Whaler.” Ronan pulled back half an inch, his throat tight, unsure if he was more disgusted with himself for noticing how her yellow sundress fit across her hips or scared that if he stayed too close he’d say something stupid. He mumbled a greeting, wiped the hot sauce off his flannel with the back of his hand, and tried to look anywhere but at her mouth, the same soft Cupid’s bow Maeve had.
Elara didn’t take the hint to leave. She propped her hip against the picnic table next to him, set the tray of shooters down between them, and grabbed one, holding it out to him, the edge of the glass dotted with coarse salt. “Heard you’re re-sanding the hull this month. I’ve got weekends free, used to help Maeve strip paint off that old pickup you had back in ‘07, remember?” Ronan’s jaw tightened. That was the line. He’d spent seven years drawing hard boundaries between the life he’d had with Maeve and anything that could possibly feel like a replacement, and this crossed every single one. He opened his mouth to tell her no, to tell her it was inappropriate, that he didn’t need her help, that he was fine on his own, when she cut him off, leaning in even closer, her breath warm against his ear over the roar of the band.
“Maeve told me, three months before she died,” she said, her voice softer now, no teasing edge to it. “Said if you didn’t stop moping around the house and letting the tomatoes rot in the garden and ignoring anyone who tried to talk to you, she was gonna come back and dump a bucket of fish guts on your favorite fishing chair. Mentioned me specifically. Said I was the only person stubborn enough to put up with your habit of leaving muddy work boots on the kitchen table and forgetting to take the trash out for three weeks.” Ronan blinked. He’d never known that. He’d spent years feeling guilty for even noticing Elara when she’d come to visit for holidays, convinced Maeve would be hurt if she knew he thought her cousin was sharp and funny and just as comfortable spending 12 hours out on the water as she was curled up with a book. The tight knot of guilt in his chest loosened, just a little, and he laughed, a loud, rough sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in years.
He reached for the oyster shooter she was holding out, his fingers brushing hers, and when she didn’t pull away he laced his calloused, two-fingers-missing left hand—maimed in a 2011 winch accident—through hers for just a second, the contact warm and solid and nothing like the empty cold he’d gotten used to. “10 a.m. next Saturday,” he said, nodding at the tray of shooters. “Bring work gloves. And a six pack of that hazy IPA you like. And don’t be late, I don’t wait for anyone who sleeps past 9.” Elara grinned, squeezing his hand before she pulled away to grab the tray, her shoulder brushing his one more time before she turned to head back to the oyster booth.
Ronan watched her walk away, took a sip of the oyster shooter, the briny salt mixing with the horseradish and vodka, burning just right going down. He didn’t even notice when his old deckhand wandered over to ask if he was ready to leave, his eyes fixed on Elara as she laughed at something a tourist said, sunlight catching the streaks of auburn in her dark hair. He picked up his IPA, took a long sip, and shifted to make space for her to come back later when her shift was done.
