Rafe Mendez, 53, spent 22 years hauling 70-pound gear bags for the Toledo Mud Hens before his left knee blew out and he took a buyout last spring. Most days he’s hunched over his garage workbench, relacing vintage leather ball gloves for collectors across the country, only leaving the house on Thursday nights for dollar drafts at The Ballcap Tavern, the one spot in town he’s guaranteed won’t run into his ex-wife Linda. He’d agreed to hit the annual town corn roast only after his buddy Ron swore Linda was in Indianapolis visiting her sister for the week, and he’d been there all of 12 minutes when Ron texted to say his kid had a fever and he bailed. Rafe swirled the last of his lager in a red plastic cup, kicking at a clump of clover dotted with crushed bottle caps, already mentally mapping the fastest route back to his empty ranch house.
The coconut sunscreen hit him first, thick and sweet, followed by a laugh that curled low in his chest before he could place it. He looked up and there she was, Clara Marlow, Linda’s younger cousin, leaning against the corn roaster, her cutoff jeans frayed at the hem, a silver hoop earring catching the golden hour sun. He hadn’t seen her in 11 years, not since Linda’s sister’s wedding, where she’d sat next to him at the reception and made fun of his terrible dance moves for an hour while his ex screamed at a caterer over the wrong salad dressing. He’d thought about that night more times than he’d ever admit, had even typed her name into Facebook once a few years back before closing the tab like he’d been caught stealing second base.
She spotted him before he could duck behind a port-a-potty, waving so hard her cup of spiked lemonade sloshed over the edge. He walked over slow, his knee creaking, already mentally running through the list of reasons this was a terrible idea: Linda would lose her mind if she found out they were talking, everyone in town knew they’d hated each other since the divorce, he’d spent 12 years building a wall between himself and anyone who’d ever so much as shared a Thanksgiving dinner with his ex. She didn’t give him time to overthink it, leaning in to hug him before he could step back, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep, the faint scent of cherry lip balm mixing with the coconut sunscreen and the buttery salt of roasted corn in the air.
She asked about the gloves first, which threw him off. Most people asked about the Mud Hens, if he’d met any future MLB stars, if he missed the road trips. She asked how he fixed the cracked webbing on 1960s catcher’s mitts, how he matched the original leather dye, if he still had the old Stan Musial glove he’d shown her at the wedding. He talked longer than he had to anyone in months, leaning against the roaster next to her, their elbows brushing every time one of them took a drink, her eyes locking on his whenever he told a story about a rookie who superglued his batting glove to his bat, or a coach who’d tried to microwave a baseball to make it harder to hit. He kept waiting for the guilt to hit, for the voice in his head to yell that this was wrong, that he was crossing a line, but all he could focus on was the way her knee knocked against his when she laughed, the way she tucked a strand of brown hair streaked with gray behind her ear every time he said something that made her pause.
They walked over to the serving table to grab a second ear of corn, and she tripped over a half-buried cooler, stumbling forward before he caught her, his hand wrapping tight around her waist, his palm warm through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. She didn’t pull away, tilting her head up to look at him, her pupils blown wide even in the golden light, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a smirk he’d thought about for years. “I’ve been waiting 15 years for you to stop acting like Linda owns every person she’s ever been related to,” she said, quiet enough that no one passing by could hear. He didn’t think, just leaned down and kissed her, soft at first, like he was testing to make sure she wasn’t going to pull away, then deeper when her hand curled around the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the gray curls at his nape. The roaster popped behind them, a group of kids screamed as they chased a dog through the field, no one looked their way.
He didn’t remember saying goodbye to anyone, didn’t remember stopping to grab a leftover ear of corn she insisted they take for later, didn’t remember unlocking his truck door until she was sitting in the passenger seat, her bare foot propped on the dash, humming an old Tom Petty song he’d had on his garage playlist for years. They pulled into his driveway 10 minutes later, and she paused before getting out, leaning over to run a finger along the Mud Hens sticker on his dashboard. “I always liked you better than I liked her, you know,” she said, soft. He led her around the back of the house to the garage first, flipping on the overhead light to show her the half-finished 1972 Johnny Bench catcher’s mitt on his workbench, the laces laid out next to it, a jar of leather conditioner sitting on the shelf above. She ran a finger along the cracked edge of the mitt, slow, then turned to look at him, her hip leaning against the workbench. He reached behind him to lock the garage door, the click loud in the quiet space.
