Moe Ruiz, 57, has spent 22 years as a minor league scout for the Cincinnati Reds farm system, logging 40,000 miles a year in his beat-up 2018 F150, a radar gun permanently slung over the passenger seat. His only consistent flaw is that he’s spent the eight years since his wife Carol died actively avoiding all small-town Maplewood community events, sick of the tight, pitying smiles and the inevitable “how you holding up, Moe?” that comes with every interaction. He only agreed to man the Reds booth at the annual rib cookoff this year because his boss promised him two extra weeks of paid scouting time in the Dominican winter league, no questions asked.
The air reeks of hickory smoke and charred pork, sweet vinegar sauce and cheap beer, and by 2 p.m. he’s already given away all the free minor league hats and most of the schedule cards, half paying attention to the dad jokes from the guy running the rib booth two spots over. He’s mid-sip of a warm Pabst when a voice cuts through the noise, low and warm, teasing. “You still chew that nasty peppermint gum, Moe Ruiz?”
He looks up, and for a second he doesn’t recognize her. Lila Marlow, 41, is Janie’s kid—Carol’s best friend’s daughter, the girl he used to slip extra popsicles to at Carol’s Fourth of July pool parties, the kid he helped build a pinewood derby car for when her dad bailed on her in 10th grade. She’s not that kid anymore. Her auburn hair is streaked with sun, half pulled back in a messy bun, ink of baseball stitches and wild poppies curling up her forearms, cut-off denim shorts showing off a scar on her left knee he remembers her getting when she fell off her bike at 12. She runs the gourmet popsicle stand squeezed right next to his booth, a hand-painted sign propped up next to her coolers advertising mango chili and lime basil flavors.
She leans over the two-foot gap between their booths to pass him a frozen mango popsicle, her bare shoulder brushing his, and he can smell coconut sunscreen and the faint tang of cherry Kool-Aid on her breath. She holds eye contact for three beats too long, grinning when he fumbles the popsicle a little before he catches it. She tells him she moved back to Maplewood six months prior, divorced after seven years of marriage to a lawyer in Chicago who hated that she’d rather mess around with simple syrup and fruit molds than go to country club fundraisers. She teases him about still wearing the same beat-up leather work boots he’s had since 2010, and he finds himself laughing before he can overthink it, a sound he barely hears these days, rough and rusty from disuse.
He spends the next two hours alternating between talking to passersby and leaning against the booth rail to chat with her, his brain fighting a war between the part that screams this is wrong, you watched her grow up, and the part that can’t stop looking at the way her smile crinkles the corners of her eyes, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s listening to him talk about scouting a 19-year-old lefty in Kentucky who throws 97 miles an hour. When a kid knocks over her stack of popsicle cups, he bends down to help her pick them up, their hands brushing when they both reach for the same blue plastic cup, and a jolt runs up his arm that he hasn’t felt since he was 22, kissing Carol for the first time in the back of a movie theater.
The thunder hits out of nowhere, loud and sharp, and the sky opens up five seconds later, cold heavy rain pouring down so hard it stings the back of his neck. Everyone scrambles to cover their booths, and Moe’s tarp is stuck, the cord tangled around the leg of his folding table. Lila hops over the gap between the booths without hesitation to help him yank it free, and they both slip on the water-soaked grass, landing in a heap next to his cooler of beer, her body half on top of his. Her face is three inches from his, rain running down her neck, soaking through her faded Johnny Cash tee, her hand splayed flat on his chest, right over his heart, which is hammering so hard he’s sure she can feel it.
He doesn’t pull away. She kisses him first, slow, deliberate, not the sloppy teenaged kiss he would’ve expected from the girl he remembered, her lips soft, tasting like mango and lime, a little cold from the popsicles. He kisses her back, one hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, the rain dripping off the brim of his Reds cap onto her cheek. For half a second he feels a flash of guilt, remembers Carol laughing as she shoved a popsicle in 12-year-old Lila’s hand at the pool, but then he remembers the last thing Carol ever said to him, quiet in her hospital bed: don’t you dare spend the rest of your life being lonely for me.
The rain lets up after 10 minutes, leaving the air smelling like wet grass and charcoal, and they pack up their booths early, ignoring the curious looks from the other vendors. He offers to drive her back to her little shop on Main Street, and she says yes, only if he stops at the taco truck off Oak Street on the way. They climb into his truck, soaking wet, and she reaches over the center console to lace her fingers through his, her hands calloused from hours of stirring fruit puree, warm against his own calloused hands, rough from 22 years of holding radar guns and hauling gear from field to field. He slips the old Johnny Cash cassette he keeps in the player into the deck, and she sings along to Folsom Prison Blues off key, her head tilted back against the seat, and he doesn’t even glance at the couple walking past the truck, staring at their laced hands. He turns onto Oak Street, the taco truck’s neon pink sign glowing up ahead, and squeezes her hand a little tighter.
