Rafe Jimenez, 51, retired minor league baseball equipment manager, had spent the last three years turning down every social invite his neighbors shoved in his mailbox. His days were filled with re-lacing scuffed catcher’s mitts for local little leaguers, drinking burnt coffee on his back porch, and pretending he didn’t notice how quiet his bungalow got after 7 PM. The only reason he’d caved to his neighbor’s demand to hit the West Tampa food truck rally was the promise of a real Cuban sandwich, the kind he hadn’t had since Manny, his old second baseman, had moved down to Miami 15 years prior.
He showed up in his faded 1998 Tampa Yankees hoodie, work boots still crusted with leather conditioner, hands stuffed in his pockets to hide the faint permanent black ink stains around his cuticles. The smell hit him first: slow-roasted pork, sour dill pickles, toasted buttered bread, sharp yellow mustard. He followed it to the bright yellow truck parked at the end of the row, hand-painted lettering across the side reading MARI’S CUBAN KITCHEN.
The woman leaning over the counter recognized him before he placed his order. She yelled his name, loud enough that a group of kids chasing an ice cream truck paused to stare. Rafe froze. It was Marisol, Manny’s little sister, the girl he’d spent every team cookout in the late 90s avoiding eye contact with, too scared Manny would catch him staring. Back then she was 19, all sharp elbows and loud laughs, always stealing fries off his plate when Manny wasn’t looking. Now she had silver streaks woven through her dark curls, a small tattoo of a baseball peeking out from the cuff of her flour-dusted t-shirt, the same deep dimples when she smiled that had made him spill a full beer on his jersey at the 1997 end-of-season party.
He ordered his sandwich, voice gruffer than he intended. When she leaned over the counter to hand it to him, their fingers brushed. She didn’t pull away immediately, her calloused palm resting against his for two full beats, eyes locked on his like she was checking he was real. She said she was off break in ten minutes, shoved a side of tostones and a cold Medalla across the counter for free, told him to grab a picnic table by the oak tree and wait.
Rafe sat, turning the cold beer can between his hands, guilt coiling tight in his chest. Manny had died of a sudden heart attack the previous spring, Rafe had driven down to Miami for the funeral, hadn’t run into Marisol there. For 25 years Manny’s half-joking rule — “Eyes off my little sister, Jimenez, she’s off limits for every guy on this team” — had been burned into his brain, even when Manny had stopped bringing her around, even when Rafe got married, even when his wife passed three years prior. He felt stupid for the hot flush climbing up his neck, for the way his heart was beating faster than it had when he’d had to chase a stolen team bus across the Georgia state line in 2003.
Marisol slid onto the bench next to him ten minutes later, so close their knees bumped under the table when she shifted to cross her legs. She leaned in when he told the story about Manny tripping over his own gear bag running onto the field for his first AA start, her shoulder pressing into his bicep when she laughed, the citrus and roasted garlic scent of her shampoo wrapping around him. She said she’d taken over the truck from her mom six years prior, Manny had driven up from Miami every Saturday to help out, had rambled constantly about how Rafe was still in town, fixing gloves for kids for free, was the only good guy he’d ever played ball with. She paused, picking a piece of pork off his sandwich, popping it in her mouth. “He told me once, back when we were kids, that you were the only teammate he’d ever let date me. He just didn’t want you to know it back then, thought you’d get cocky.”
Rafe felt the tight coil of guilt in his chest unfurl all at once. He admitted he’d had a crush on her for years, back when they were younger, had never said anything because he’d thought Manny would knock his teeth out. She smiled, reached across the table, brushed a fleck of pickle brine off his chin with her thumb, the pad of her finger lingering against the gray stubble on his jaw for a second longer than necessary. She said she’d had a crush on him too, used to beg Manny to bring her to every team event just so she could sit next to him on the bus, used to steal his extra batting gloves out of his gear bag and keep them under her bed.
The sun dipped below the roofline of the nearby strip mall as they talked, fairy lights strung between the oak trees flickering to life, a busker a few tables over strumming a slow cover of an old Buena Vista Social Club track. Marisol checked her watch, wiped a smudge of mustard off her t-shirt, said her shift ended in an hour, she had a fresh batch of flan in the back cooler of the truck, if he wanted to drive down to the waterfront with her and watch the sunset over the bay.
Rafe nodded, taking a long sip of his beer, watching her stand up and brush crumbs off her jeans. She looked over her shoulder as she walked back to the truck, winking at him before she pulled the service window shut to take the next customer’s order. He leaned back against the oak tree, twisting the wedding ring he still wore on a chain around his neck between his fingers, for the first time in three years not feeling guilty for looking forward to what came next.
