Manny Ruiz, 53, has spent the better part of the last decade living out of a duffel bag and a dented 2018 F150, crisscrossing Ohio, Indiana, and Kentucky as a minor league baseball scout for the Reds farm system. His biggest flaw, one his only remaining friend harps on him for every off-season, is that he’d rather rewatch 1995 World Series tapes alone than show his face at any town event, still stinging from the way his ex-wife left him for a regional sales manager eight years prior, still convinced half the town whispers about him when he walks into the grocery store. He only agreed to come to the annual township fire department chili cook-off because his old Little League co-coach, now the assistant fire chief, threatened to leave a bag of rotting baseballs on his porch if he bailed.
He’s leaned up against the cinder block wall by the beer cooler, hoodie pulled halfway up, half-empty plastic cup of lukewarm light beer in his hand, when she reaches past him for the last cold IPA on the top shelf. Her knuckles brush his wrist when she grabs the can, and he catches a whiff of lavender hand lotion cut with the sharp, savory smoke of chipotle chili wafting from the folding tables 20 feet away. He glances down, recognizes her immediately: Clara Bennett, 41, the new elementary school principal, the ex-wife of the guy he used to split post-practice cheeseburgers with back in 2017. He freezes, half-expecting her to yank her hand back like he’s contagious, half the town still thinks she’s happily married, after all.
Instead, she holds his eye contact for three full beats, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, the kind of look that makes his neck feel hot even in the 40-degree October air. “Still drinking that garbage light beer, Ruiz?” She nods at his cup, leans her hip against the cooler next to him, close enough that her shoulder brushes his bicep when she shifts her weight. “I would’ve pegged you for a guy who’d upgrade after all those years on the road scouting snot-nosed 18-year-olds.”
He snorts, takes a sip of his beer just to buy himself a second. He’s torn, every part of his brain screaming that this is a bad idea, that if any of the town gossips standing by the chili tables spot them chatting, by sundown the whole county will think he’s homewrecking a marriage. But another part of him, the part that’s been dormant for so long he forgot it existed, is fixated on the smudge of red chili on her lower lip, the way her dark hair falls in loose waves out of the messy bun on top of her head, the way she’s not looking away like every other woman in town who’s heard the sad story of Manny Ruiz’s failed marriage.
He makes a dumb joke about the fire chief’s chili, the one that’s so burnt it’s smoking through the crockpot lid, and she laughs so hard she snorts, clapping a hand over her mouth. She leans in closer when she tells him she split from her ex six months prior, quiet enough that only he can hear her over the roar of the portable heater and the chatter of the crowd. They agreed not to tell anyone until the end of the school year, she says, so the kids at the elementary school wouldn’t get wrapped up in the drama.
He doesn’t even realize they’ve wandered out to the back of the parking lot until they’re sitting on the tailgate of his truck, legs dangling over the edge, sharing a bag of corn chips she grabbed from the snack table. The sun’s going down, painting the sky pink and orange over the cornfields at the edge of town, and when he jokes about the time her ex tripped over a base during a Little League game and face-planted into the dirt, she leans into him, her shoulder pressed firm against his, her breath warm on his neck.
She reaches up without warning, swiping a smudge of chili off his cheek with her thumb, holding her hand there for a long second, her face inches from his. He can taste the mint of her gum and the faint sweetness of the IPA she’s been drinking when she exhales, and for a second he thinks he’ll panic, make up an excuse and drive home to hide for the rest of the off-season. But then she tilts her chin up, just a little, and he kisses her. It’s slow, soft, nothing like the rushed, awkward kisses he’d had with random women in hotel bars over the years, and when she pulls back she’s grinning, her cheeks flushed.
They make plans to drive up to Oxford the next weekend to watch a Miami University baseball game, no pressure, no need to tell anyone until they’re ready. He drives her home 20 minutes later, and when she gets out of the truck she leaves her chunky gray wool scarf draped over the passenger seat. He waits until her front door closes before he reaches over, picks it up, holds it to his face, and breathes in the mix of lavender lotion and chipotle smoke still clinging to the fabric.
