Manny Ruiz, 53, is a minor league baseball scout who spends 10 months of the year camped in folding chairs outside high school and D3 ballfields, sunburn creeping up his forearms, a beat-up Pirates cap pulled low over his eyes. His biggest flaw is the hard line he drew seven years ago, after his wife left him for a real estate agent in Charlotte: no fraternizing with anyone connected to his job, no small talk that bleeds into personal territory, no exceptions. He’s seen what happens when scouts cross that line—one friend lost his job three years ago for dating a player’s mom, rumors of preferential treatment swirling until even the kid’s draft stock took a hit. Manny’s spent the years since keeping his social life confined to late nights at the dive bar near his Asheville cottage, no questions asked, no strings attached.
He only showed up to the town’s 4th of July street fair because his buddy who ran the beer garden begged him to haul cases of IPA for an hour, promising free beer for a week as payment. The air is thick with the smell of fried Oreos and charcoal smoke, John Mellencamp blaring from a crackling portable speaker by the food stalls, sticky sugar from cotton candy grinding under the soles of his scuffed work boots. He’s halfway to the exit, his shift done, when his elbow knocks a jar of peach jam off the edge of a pop-up pie stand, glass shattering across the sidewalk.
He leans down to clean it up at the same time the owner does, their hands brushing over a shard of glass. Hers is cool, calloused from kneading dough, a smudge of blueberry filling caked on her knuckle. He yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, already fumbling for his wallet to pay for the damage, but she laughs, low and warm, and swats his hand away. “Don’t worry about it,” she says, wiping her hands on the gingham apron tied around her waist. “I’ve gone through three jars today already. Clumsy crowd.” He recognizes her then: Elara, mom to Javi, the left-handed pitcher he’s been courting for the low-A affiliate he works for, the kid who can throw a 92 mph slider that makes even college seniors swing at air.
His throat goes tight. He should leave right now, stick to his rule, but she’s already sliding a paper plate with a slice of peach pie across the stand at him, their fingers brushing again when he takes it without thinking. The crust is flaky, the filling sweet and tangy, better than any dessert he’s had in years. He leans against the edge of the stand, stiff at first, scanning the crowd for anyone who might recognize them and start talking, but she teases him about his faded Pirates cap, says her dad used to drag her to doubleheaders every Sunday when she was a kid, and he loosens up before he even realizes it. They talk for an hour, her leaning in a little every time she laughs, the gap between them shrinking until their shoulders are almost touching, the noise of the fair fading to background static.
The first firework bursts overhead right as a group of kids runs past, one of them slamming into Manny’s back. He stumbles forward, his arm wrapping around Elara’s waist to steady both of them, and he can feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her faded Dolly Parton tee, the faint scent of vanilla and cinnamon on her skin. She doesn’t pull away, just tilts her head up to look at him, her dark eyes glowing with the red and blue bursts of the fireworks above them. He knows he should step back, should mumble an apology and leave, should protect Javi’s draft status and his own job, but he brushes a crumb of pie crust off her lip with his thumb instead, and she tilts her chin up, her lips parting just a little. The kiss is quick at first, tentative, then longer, the distant boom of the fireworks matching the thud of his heart in his chest.
When they pull apart, the last of the fireworks are fading, the crowd starting to disperse toward their cars. Manny runs a hand over the back of his neck, already bracing to say he knows this is a bad idea, that he can’t risk it, but she smirks and cuts him off before he can speak. “Javi signed his contract an hour ago,” she says, tucking a strand of curly hair streaked with silver behind her ear. “Texted me from his dad’s house. Didn’t want to tell you earlier and mess with your whole ‘strict professional’ vibe.” He laughs, loud and unexpected, the tight knot of anxiety in his chest unraveling fast. She packs the last of her pie tins into a cooler, slinging her apron over the handle, and asks him if he wants to come back to her place, says she’s got a bottle of small-batch bourbon stashed under her kitchen sink and a whole extra peach pie in her cooler, no pressure, no rules for the night.
He picks up the heavy cooler for her, slings it over his shoulder, and falls into step beside her as they walk down the quiet side street, the faint pop of sparklers from neighboring yards echoing behind them.
