Manny Ruiz is 59, has spent the last 22 years as a minor league baseball scout, logging 300+ days a year on the road, sleeping in motel beds with lumpy mattresses and eating gas station burritos for breakfast more often than not. His biggest flaw is he holds grudges like he’s getting paid for it: he still won’t set foot in a Taco Bell because a cashier shorted him five bucks in 2007, still changes the radio when Taylor Swift comes on because his ex-wife loved her, still avoided his hometown of Waco entirely for 38 years after his high school girlfriend dumped him three days before graduation to run off with a Baylor quarterback. The only reason he’s here now is a 17-year-old lefty from Midland who throws a 97 mph fastball with a curve that breaks so sharp it makes batters trip over their own feet. The showcase wrapped at 8, the sky split open with rain ten minutes later, so he ducked into the first dive bar he saw off I-35, the kind with neon beer signs half burned out and a jukebox that only plays 90s country.
He slings his scouting bag on the floor next to the bar stool, flags the bartender, and orders a Shiner Bock, not looking up until the cold bottle slides across the chipped Formica counter and a voice he’d know even if he was deaf says, “Still drinking that cheap swill, Manny Ruiz?”
He looks up. It’s Lila Marlow. Same dark curls, now streaked with silver at the temples, same small scar above her left eyebrow from the time they snuck out to jump off the quarry ledge and she hit a rock on the way down, same habit of biting her lower lip when she’s trying not to laugh at him. He freezes, half tempted to grab his bag and bolt for his truck, but the rain is beating so hard against the windows he can barely see the parking lot, and he knows the second he steps outside he’ll be soaked through to his underwear before he can unlock the door. “You work here?” he says, more gruff than he means to.
She snorts, wipes a spot on the bar with a rag that smells like lemon dish soap. “Own it. Bought the place five years ago after my husband died. Figured I spent enough time serving people coffee and cinnamon rolls at my bakery, I might as well serve them beer too.” She leans against the bar across from him, her elbow propped on the counter, and their knees knock under the bar when she shifts her weight. He doesn’t move his leg away. She’s wearing a faded Willie Nelson t-shirt and jeans, her nails are chipped with red polish, and when she reaches behind her to grab a glass for iced tea, the hem of her shirt rides up just enough to show a sliver of freckled skin at her waist. He looks away fast, like he’s a 17 year old kid again, scared he’ll get caught staring.
They make small talk for 45 minutes, alternating between teasing and careful questions. She teases him about still wearing that beat up Oakland A’s cap he wore to every game their senior year, he teases her about still putting way too much sugar in the iced tea she slides him after he finishes his beer. She tells him she saw his name on the 40th reunion RSVP list, that she’s been helping organize it, that she knew he’d show up eventually as soon as she heard the lefty from Midland was scheduled for the showcase. He’s surprised she even pays attention to baseball, let alone his career. He’d figured she forgot he existed the second she drove off to Baylor with that quarterback in his pickup truck.
The power cuts out halfway through his second beer, the neon signs flicker off, the jukebox cuts out mid-George Strait track. The bar goes quiet except for the sound of rain pounding the roof and the distant hum of a backup generator warming up. Lila curses under her breath, moves around the bar to grab the candles she keeps under the front counter, and stumbles over a stack of coasters in the dark, catching herself with one hand flat on his thigh. Her palm is warm through his worn denim jeans, and he puts his hand over hers automatically to steady her, his calloused fingers (years of gripping baseball bats, turning lug nuts on his old truck) brushing against her softer ones. She doesn’t pull away for three full seconds, until the generator kicks on and the low lights flicker back to life.
When they both look up at each other, the teasing edge is gone. He admits he was planning to skip the reunion, drive back to Austin as soon as the rain let out, sleep in his own bed for the first time in two weeks. She admits she was planning to skip it too, until she heard he was in town. The rain slows to a fine mist by 10, he helps her lock up the bar, carries the stack of empty beer boxes out to the dumpster for her. He kisses her on the cheek first, slow, like he’s testing the waters, and she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him in for a real kiss, tastes like peppermint gum and Shiner Bock, the cool mist settling on the back of his neck. He pulls back first, just far enough to see her smile, and asks her if she wants to get breakfast at the old diner they used to go to after football games before the reunion tomorrow. She nods, tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear, and squeezes his hand before she gets in her car. He leans against the hood of his truck watching her taillights fade down the highway, and for the first time in 38 years, he’s not dreading being home.
