Rico Marquez, 53, a minor league baseball scout who’d spent 30 years living out of a duffel bag and logging 40,000 miles a year on his beat-up Ford F-150, never thought he’d set foot back in his West Texas hometown. He’d bailed two weeks after high school graduation, no note, no goodbye to Lila, his high school sweetheart, too scared to stick around for a life that felt too small, too tied down. His only reason for being here now was a 17-year-old left-handed pitcher who could hurl a fastball 96 miles an hour, and the kid’s dad, the local Lions Club president, had strong-armed him into the annual Fourth of July cookoff as a favor.
The air reeked of smoked brisket, charcoal, and cheap citrus sunblock, the July sun beating so hard on the back of his neck he could feel skin prickle under his worn Astros cap. He leaned against the dented metal beer cooler, cracking open a Shiner Bock, when a woman’s hand reached past him for a lime seltzer, their knuckles brushing. He pulled back fast, and she laughed, a low, warm sound that tightened his chest. She had the same crinkle at the corner of her dark eyes that Lila had, sun streaks in wavy black hair, a faded Willie Nelson tee cut off at the waist, frayed cutoffs, a small baseball tattoo wrapping around her left wrist.
He fought the urge to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his stomach twisting with a mix of guilt and sharp, unignorable desire. He knew exactly who she was: Lila’s daughter, Clara, 32, who’d moved to Austin after college to work as a graphic designer, who Lila had posted about on Facebook every year on her birthday, posts he’d stalked late at night in hotel rooms when he was drunk and lonely. He’d spent 30 years running from any relationship that felt like it might stick, scared he’d hurt someone the way he’d hurt Lila, and here he was, sitting next to her daughter, wanting to reach across the bench and touch her, taste the lime on her lips.
They talked for an hour, the sun dipping below the oak trees at the edge of the fairgrounds, the sky turning tangerine and soft purple. She kept leaning in, their shoulders pressed together now, her bare arm warm against his, and every time she laughed she nudged his arm with hers, her calloused fingers brushing his bicep through the thin fabric of his work shirt. When the first firework boomed overhead, painting the sky bright electric blue, she stood up, nodded toward the dirt path leading down to the creek behind the fairgrounds, and asked if he wanted to get away from the noise.
He hesitated for half a second, every alarm in his head screaming that this was wrong, that he’d mess this up the same way he’d messed up everything good in his life, but he nodded, stood up, and followed her. The grass was soft under his scuffed work boots, crickets chirping loud enough to drown out the distant sound of the band, fireflies blinking on and off around them as they walked. When they got to the creek bank, she stopped, turned to face him, the pink light from the fireworks painting her cheeks, and said she knew exactly who he was.
His stomach dropped, and he tensed up, ready for her to yell, call him an asshole for leaving her mom, for sneaking back into town like he hadn’t broken Lila’s heart. But she just smiled, stepped closer, and brushed a crumb of brisket off his chin with her thumb, her touch soft, warm. She said her mom had a photo of him on the fridge, taken at their senior prom, that she’d grown up hearing stories about the boy who loved baseball more than anything, who was too scared to stay for the life he said he wanted. She said Lila never hated him, that she’d always told Clara anyone who ran that fast was just running from themselves, not the people they left behind.
He stood there for a minute, his throat tight, the distant boom of the final firework rattling in his chest. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his scouting notebook, tore out a blank page, and scribbled his cell number on it, along with the name of the bar he frequented in Austin when he was passing through. He handed it to her, and she tucked it into the pocket of her cutoffs, grinning, and nudged his shoulder with hers.
He stood next to her, watching the last of the firework sparks fade into the dark sky, the sound of the creek gurgling low in front of them, and for the first time in 30 years, he didn’t feel the urge to run.
