Ronan O’Malley, 53, is a Midwest League minor league scout who spends 220 days a year driving rust belt backroads, eating gas station burritos, and watching 19-year-old kids with 95 mph fastballs try not to blow their shot at the big leagues. His biggest flaw is that he holds grudges like they’re signed memorabilia, tucked away and polished regularly; he hasn’t attended a single town event in 12 years, ever since his ex-wife left him for his college baseball teammate in the middle of the annual summer block party.
He rolls into his driveway outside Des Moines at 7 PM on a sweltering July Tuesday, his truck’s AC dead for three days running, his fridge empty save for a jar of pickles and a half-empty bottle of bourbon. The whole street smells like charcoal and sweet corn, and he remembers too late the block party is happening that night. He debates just crashing on the couch hungry, but his stomach growls loud enough to compete with the distant sound of a cover band cranking out Mellencamp, so he grabs his beat up White Sox cap, shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, and heads down the block, figuring he can grab a pulled pork sandwich and bolt before his ex spots him.
He’s halfway through the line at the food tent when a woman’s voice cuts through the noise, warm and teasing. “You still wear that ratty cap? I thought you’d have lost it somewhere on the road by now.”
He looks up, and it’s Lila Marlow, his ex’s younger cousin. He hasn’t seen her since his wedding 18 years prior, when she’d snuck him a shot of tequila before the ceremony because he was so nervous he could barely stand. She’s 48 now, auburn hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, a smudge of barbecue sauce on her left cheek, wearing cutoff jean shorts and a faded Johnny Cash t-shirt that fits tight across her shoulders. She’s leaning against the folding table, one boot propped on the lower rung, her elbow a few inches from his, and when she passes him a paper plate with a sandwich and a side of coleslaw, their fingers brush. He feels the callus on her thumb, rough from playing guitar, a detail he remembers from when she’d played covers at his wedding reception.
His first instinct is to run. Hooking up with an ex’s family was the kind of low move he’d roasted his teammates for back in his playing days, the kind of small town drama that would have everyone gossiping at the grocery store for six months. But she’s grinning at him like she knows exactly what he’s thinking, and when she pats the empty spot on the bench next to her, he sits down before he can talk himself out of it.
Their knees knock under the table when she shifts to grab a soda from the cooler at her feet, and she doesn’t move away. He can smell lavender perfume mixed with wood smoke on her, hear the crinkle of the paper plate when she picks up a corn dog, see the faint laugh lines around her eyes when she teases him about his grudge against her cousin. “You know she’s been married to that guy for 11 years and they hate each other, right? You’re allowed to stop skipping town events just to avoid her.”
He snorts, taking a bite of the sandwich, the sauce dripping down his wrist. She hands him a napkin, her fingers lingering on his forearm for a beat longer than necessary, and he feels heat crawl up his neck, the kind of flutter he hasn’t felt since he was 20 and talking to a girl for the first time after a game. They talk for 45 minutes, him telling her about the 19-year-old shortstop he just scouted in Illinois who can hit a ball 450 feet, her telling him about the three rescue pit bulls she fosters out of her new house on the edge of town, how she moved back from Austin three months prior after her tech executive husband left her for a 26-year-old marketing intern.
The band shifts to a slow cover of “Can’t Help Falling in Love”, and couples start drifting onto the patch of grass they’ve been using as a dance floor. She tugs on his wrist, her calloused thumb brushing the scar on his wrist from his old shoulder surgery. “C’mon. I remember you could slow dance. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”
He hesitates, glancing across the tent and spotting his ex standing by the silent auction table, staring right at them, her mouth tight. The old instinct to run kicks in, the shame of being caught talking to his ex’s cousin, the fear of the drama that’s going to blow up his quiet small town life. But then he looks back at Lila, her eyes bright, her hand still wrapped around his wrist, and he realizes he’s spent 12 years making himself small to avoid inconveniencing a woman who didn’t think twice about blowing up his life. He stands, letting her pull him toward the dance floor.
They don’t press close at first, his hand light on her waist, hers on his shoulder, but halfway through the song she rests her head on his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck, and he pulls her a little closer, can feel the heat of her body through his thin flannel shirt, the steady thud of her heart against his chest. He can feel his ex’s eyes on him the whole time, but he doesn’t care. For the first time in over a decade, he’s not thinking about the past, not thinking about the grudge he’s been carrying, just the way her hair smells, the way her fingers are tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, the sound of the band drifting through the warm summer air.
The song ends, and she pulls back, her cheeks pink, the smudge of barbecue sauce still on her cheek. He brushes it off with his thumb, his finger lingering on her jaw, and she smiles, leaning into the touch a little. He asks her if she wants to come back to his place, says his AC is dead but he’s got a case of cold IPA in the fridge and a porch with a box fan that works just fine. She nods, grinning, squeezing his hand.
He laces his fingers through hers, ignoring the sharp, disapproving look his ex shoots them from across the tent, and walks toward his beat up F150, the hum of the band fading behind them.
