Rafe Marquez, 53, minor league baseball scout for the St. Louis Cardinals farm system, had spent 12 years avoiding every downtown event in his small southern Indiana town. His ex-wife volunteered for most of them, and he’d long ago decided the hassle of running into her, or her loud group of real estate friends, wasn’t worth a plate of fried dough or a bluegrass set. His boss had cornered him three days earlier, though, begging him to show face at the fall festival to cheer on his 8-year-old’s little league parade float, and Rafe couldn’t say no. He showed up in the same frayed Cardinals hoodie he’d owned since his AAA playing days, scouting notebook stuffed in his back pocket, spiced cider in one hand, scanning the crowd for the fastest exit.
He turned to step out of the way of a group of kids in ghost costumes and bumped straight into someone, half his cider sloshing over the rim onto both their jeans. He started to apologize, then froze when he looked down. Lila Mendez, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, was grinning up at him, cider dripping off the hem of her flannel shirt tied around her waist, boots caked in mud from the pumpkin patch down the road. He hadn’t seen her in 11 years, not since the Christmas cookout right after his ex left, when she’d slipped him a beer under the table and told him her cousin was an idiot.
She handed him a crumpled napkin from her jacket pocket, their fingers brushing for half a second longer than necessary when he took it. Her nail polish was still chipped neon pink, same as it had been when she was 19 and crashing his family cookouts begging him to teach her to throw a curveball. She teased him about the hoodie, said she’d recognize that faded logo anywhere, and he found himself laughing before he could stop himself. He knew better than to talk to her. Half the town would gossip before the parade even ended, his ex would hear about it by sundown, and he’d spent a decade building a wall between himself and every part of his old married life. But when she stepped closer to avoid a hayride rolling past, her forearm pressing against his, the smell of lavender perfume and apple cider drifting off her, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away.
She mentioned she was in town visiting her grandma, had driven up from Nashville that morning where she worked as a freelance graphic designer, had planned to hit the festival for an hour before bailing to watch old Westerns at her grandma’s trailer. She remembered he hated cinnamon in his cider, so she darted back to the tent and grabbed him a fresh cup, no extra spice, just warm apple and a splash of bourbon she’d snuck in in her water bottle. They leaned against the split-rail fence bordering the festival grounds, watching the pie eating contest, and she told him about the time she’d snuck into his old practice field at 2am with her high school boyfriend, gotten stuck in the outfield fence, and had to call him to come get her. He’d forgotten that story entirely, and the laugh he let out was loud enough that a few people turned to look.
She nodded toward the dirt road leading out of town, the one that cut past the cornfields to that same old practice field, no one used it anymore now that the high school built a new diamond on the other side of town. She held up two crumpled paper bags she’d grabbed from the fritter stand, said she’d gotten extra, if he wanted to get away from the noise. He hesitated for a full ten seconds, thinking about the gossip, the way his ex would blow up his phone, the stupid grudge he’d carried for 12 years that suddenly felt as light as the crumpled napkin in his pocket. He nodded.
They drove out in his beat-up Ford pickup, the windows rolled down, the cool fall air whipping through the cab, old Johnny Cash playing low on the radio. They sat on the splintered bleachers behind home plate, the sun dipping below the cornfields, painting the sky pink and tangerine. She passed him a warm fritter, powdered sugar dusting the top, and their fingers brushed again when he took it, this time neither of them pulled away. He bit into the still-warm fritter, sugar sticking to his lower lip, and let her thumb brush it off without pulling away.
