Manny Ortega, 53, made his living driving 40,000 miles a year scouting left-handed pitchers for a low-level minor league affiliate out of central Florida, and he’d perfected the art of keeping people at arm’s length. His ex-wife had left him eight years prior for a commercial real estate broker who wore loafers without socks, and he’d decided somewhere along the line that small-town entanglements weren’t worth the hassle. He only came back to his one-bedroom cottage on the gulf for six weeks every off-season, and he spent 90% of that time perched on the same scuffed pine stool at Sharky’s Tiki, the only bar in town that didn’t blast EDM or cater to spring breakers with neon fanny packs.
It was 9pm on a Tuesday in late January, the air thick with salt and the greasy, perfect smell of fried grouper bites, when Clara Bennett slid onto the stool two spots down from him. He recognized her immediately, even though he hadn’t seen her in almost seven years: Jesse’s kid sister, now 47, the girl who used to sneak into their minor league team’s apartment with six-packs of warm beer when she was 19, who’d had a terrible crush on Manny that all the guys used to tease her about. She’d moved to Oregon after college to work in marine conservation, and Jesse had died in a fishing accident five years prior, before she ever moved back.
The bartender, a kid named Javi who’d played third base on the high school team Manny scouted two years prior, slid a Corona with a lime wedge down the bar toward her before she could order. “Manny already paid for it,” Javi said, nodding toward him before turning to wipe down the other end of the bar.
Clara picked up the beer, walked over to the stool directly next to Manny, and sat down. Her knee brushed his denim-clad thigh when she shifted to face him, and he could smell coconut shampoo and sea spray on her hair, the faint, sweet tang of vanilla lip balm. She held his gaze for three full beats, no awkward looking away, just a lazy, knowing smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “You still remember my order,” she said, and her voice was deeper than he remembered, rougher around the edges from years of working on research boats.
Manny’s throat went dry. He’d promised Jesse, the week before he died, that if Clara ever moved back to town, he’d look out for her, make sure no deadbeat guys gave her trouble, help her fix up the old beach cottage Jesse had left her. He’d always thought of her as off limits, out of bounds, like hitting on your best friend’s little sister was some cardinal sin you didn’t come back from. He opened his mouth to make a joke about how he had a good memory for useless trivia, but all he could do was stare at the tiny, faded scar on her left wrist, the one she’d gotten when Jesse tried to teach her to ride a dirt bike when she was 12.
They talked for two hours, about her new job running the town’s first sea turtle conservation nonprofit, about the 19-year-old lefty Manny had scouted in Georgia the month before who threw 97 miles an hour but cried after every loss, about how Jesse’s old cottage had a leaky roof and a porch that was half rotted out. Every time she laughed, she leaned in a little closer, her shoulder brushing his, her hand brushing his forearm when she made a point about the town council voting down her new nesting beach protection ordinance. The jukebox played old Tom Petty and Steve Earle, the waves crashed loud enough to hear over the hum of the bar’s neon signs, and Manny forgot all about the rule he’d made for himself about not getting involved with anyone local.
When the bar closed at 11, they walked out to the old wooden pier together, no plan, just wandering. The moon was full, hanging low over the gulf, painting the water silver. Halfway down the pier, Clara stopped, turned to face him, and stepped so close their chests almost touched. “Jesse knew I had a crush on you,” she said, quiet enough that only the wind could hear it. “He told me once, if I ever got the nerve when I was all grown up, I should stop being a coward and make a move. Said you were too stubborn to make the first one yourself.”
Manny didn’t say anything. He just reached out, brushed a strand of wind-tousled hair off her face, and kissed her. It was slow, no rush, the salt from the ocean on both their lips, her hand curling around the back of his neck, his hand resting light on her waist. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, the same way it did the first time he’d ever taken the mound for a minor league game, like he was about to do something that would change everything, and he didn’t care at all.
When they pulled apart, she smiled up at him, the same goofy, unselfconscious smile she’d had when she was 19. She gave him her address, scribbled on a napkin she’d stuffed in her jacket pocket, and told him to come over for coffee at 9 the next morning, that she needed help patching the leaky roof on Jesse’s cottage. He walked her to her beat-up old Ford pickup, watched her pull out of the parking lot, waving out the window as she turned onto the coastal highway.
He leaned against the pier rail, the cold wood digging into his back, and pulled the crumpled napkin out of his jeans pocket, running his thumb over the smudged ink of her handwriting. He fished his phone out of his other pocket, set an alarm for 8am, and grinned so wide his cheeks ached.
