Manny Ruiz, 53, has spent most of the last four years living out of a dented Ford F-150, driving between small-town high school baseball fields for his job as a minor league scout for the Guardians’ farm system. He avoids his hometown of Millersburg, Ohio as much as possible, save for a four-week stretch every July when the travel schedule eases up, and even then he mostly sticks to his small ranch on the edge of town, grilling frozen burgers and watching old game tapes instead of showing up to the community events everyone badgers him about. This year, the smell of hickory smoke drifting three miles into his yard from the annual rib festival finally broke his resolve. He grabbed his worn ball cap and headed into town, telling himself he only wanted a rack of St. Louis-style ribs and a cold IPA, no small talk required.
He knew who she was immediately: Lila Marlow, 42, the county health inspector, the woman every small-town gossip had been whispering about for the last year since she left her state trooper husband and moved into the little blue cottage two streets over from his. Her palm was cool where it pressed into his skin through his thin cotton scouting shirt, calloused at the fingertips like she spent a lot of time climbing or working with her hands, and she laughed so hard she snort when she realized she’d almost taken a dive into trash. “Sorry about that,” she said, brushing grass off her cutoff denim shirt, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, sweat beading at her hairline. “I’ve been running inspections for 12 hours straight, my feet are so numb I can’t feel the curb half the time.”
Manny hesitated, his first instinct to nod and go back to his ribs, to avoid the inevitable side-eye from everyone who’d notice them talking. Everyone in town acted like Lila was contagious, like leaving an abusive husband made her damaged goods, like any man who spoke to her for longer than 10 seconds was looking for trouble. But she was still standing there, smiling, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners, and he found himself patting the empty spot on the bench next to him. “Sit,” he said. “I got an extra beer if you want it. Non-alcoholic, if you’re still on the clock.”
She sat, close enough that her shoulder brushed his when she leaned back against the table, and took the NA beer he pulled out of the cooler next to his feet. They talked first about the ribs, then about the terrible cover band, then about the time she’d seen him at the local high school field last spring, running batting practice for a kid who’d made it to the state playoffs. He’d had no idea she coached the 14U girls softball team in her free time, no idea she’d been watching his scouting reports online to figure out how to help her team hit better. She teased him for wearing the same beat-up Guardians cap every time she saw him, he teased her for carrying a clipboard even when she was off the clock, tucking it under the table when she sat down like she was scared someone would ask her to inspect their potato salad.
The sun dipped below the tree line as they talked, the string lights strung above the picnic tables flickering to life, painting the crowd in warm gold. Lila leaned in closer when she told him about the first time she’d left her husband, how the entire town had acted like she was the one who’d done something wrong, how she’d almost moved away three times before she decided she wasn’t going to let anyone run her out of the place she grew up. Manny found himself telling her about his wife, Maria, how she’d died of ovarian cancer four years prior, how he’d started staying on the road so much because he couldn’t stand the way everyone looked at him like he was half a person now. The air between them felt thick, soft, no pity, no unspoken questions, just the hum of the band and the faint smell of coconut shampoo coming off her hair.
When she stood up to leave, she pulled a crumpled health inspection slip out of her clipboard, scribbled her cell number on the back in blue ballpoint, and tucked it into the front pocket of his flannel shirt, her fingers brushing the fabric over his chest for half a second longer than necessary. “Text me when you’re free next week,” she said, grinning. “The girls need a hitting coach, and I don’t feel like listening to any of the other guys in town mansplain how to hold a bat.” She waved over her shoulder as she walked into the crowd, and Manny sat there for another 20 minutes, sipping his warm beer, his fingers resting on the slip of paper in his pocket, watching the crowd dance to the slow song the band was playing.
He stood up a few minutes later, threw his empty rib rack and beer cans in the trash, and walked to his truck, ignoring the curious stares from the group of town regulars sitting at the table next to his. He pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket as he sat down in the driver’s seat, running his thumb over the smudged ink where her number was written, and turned the key in the ignition before hitting save on the new contact in his phone.
