Hugo Marlow, 57, had spent the last 19 years as a minor league baseball scout, logging 200+ days a year on backroads between small town diamonds, his tattered spiral notebook crammed with pitch velocity notes and hitter swing flaws tucked into the pocket of whatever cargo shorts he’d grabbed that morning. He hated small town events, thought they were nothing but loud small talk and overpriced fried food, so he’d almost tossed the free fire department fundraiser ticket his neighbor left on his porch when he rolled into his Ohio rental for a three week off-season stretch. He’d caved only because his fridge was full of frozen pizza and his JAG reruns were starting to blur together.
The beer tent smelled like burnt hot dogs, stale cigarette smoke, and cheap citrus seltzer, the August humidity clinging to his shirt under the faded mesh baseball cap he wore to cover the thinning gray hair on the crown of his head. He leaned against a splintered wooden support post, sipping a cold IPA, when he spotted her across the crowd. Lila Mae Carter, 48, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the woman he’d spent 10 years actively avoiding after the divorce, when she’d posted a scathing Facebook status calling him a selfish workaholic who deserved to be alone. She was wearing cutoff denim shorts and a faded 1990s Reds tank top, freckles dusted across her nose, silver hoops glinting when she tossed her hair over her shoulder. She caught his eye, held it for three full beats longer than casual politeness allowed, then smirked and started walking his way.
He tensed up, ready to make a quick exit, but she stepped around a kid sprinting with a melting cherry snow cone, her bare shoulder brushing his bicep so lightly he almost thought he imagined it, the scent of coconut sunscreen and vanilla lip balm sticking to his skin even after she shifted back half a step. “Still carrying that beat up old notebook?” she said, nodding at the spiral bound pad sticking out of his shorts pocket, her tone teasing, not sharp. “I thought you’d have caved and bought one of those fancy scouting apps by now.” He grunted, surprised she even remembered the notebook, said he didn’t trust anything that needed a cell signal to work. She laughed, a low warm sound that cut through the noise of the tent, and leaned against the post next to him, their elbows almost touching.
They talked for an hour, standing so close their arms brushed every time one of them shifted, and he learned she’d split with her long-term construction foreman boyfriend six months prior, was in town visiting her grandma for the week, had apologized to his ex three years earlier for that dumb Facebook post, had always thought he got a raw deal in the divorce. When she asked what he had planned for dinner, he admitted he’d had a brisket smoking on his back porch since 6 a.m., was gonna eat it alone for a week straight. She raised one eyebrow, the corner of her mouth tugging up, and said she had nowhere to be for the next three hours, would happily trade a six pack of the good local stout he liked for a plate.
He hesitated for a full ten seconds, every old rule buzzing in his head: off limits, family, too much drama. But then she reached for his beer, her fingers brushing his when she took it, took a long sip, and wiped foam off her lip with the back of her hand, and he couldn’t remember why any of those rules mattered anymore. He nodded, said she had to bring the stout, and she grinned, grabbing his wrist to tug him toward the exit, her palm warm against the scar he had there from a college baseball line drive.
His rental house was two blocks away, the front yard overgrown with clover, the back porch fan whirring loud enough to drown out the crickets when they stepped onto it. The brisket smelled like hickory and black pepper, the crust crisp when he prodded it with a meat thermometer. He set it on the wooden cutting board, reaching for a knife, when he felt her hand press light against his lower back, right above the waistband of his shorts, her fingers warm through the thin cotton of his shirt. “I was so stupid back then,” she said, her voice soft, so close he could feel her breath on the back of his neck. “I thought loyalty meant picking a side, not picking the truth.”
He turned around slow, and she was so close their chests almost touched, he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the tiny scar above her left eyebrow from the time she fell off a four wheeler at a family cookout in 2010, the memory popping into his head unbidden. He didn’t overthink it, just leaned down and kissed her, and she kissed him back, her fingers tangling in the graying hair at the nape of his neck, her body pressing against his like she’d been waiting to do it for years.
They ate the brisket off paper plates, slathered in his homemade barbecue sauce, sitting on his porch swing while the sun dipped below the cornfield across the street, painting the sky pink and orange. She told him she was only in town for two more days, and he said he had 19 more days off before he had to drive to Kentucky for a high school showcase, could clear every single one of them if she wanted to stick around. She laughed, swiped a dollop of barbecue sauce off his chin with her thumb, and licked it off slow, said that sounded like the best plan she’d heard all year.
He reached for her hand, laced his calloused, notebook-creased fingers through hers, and didn’t overthink it for the first time in eight years.
