His forearm brushed someone else’s when they both reached for the same pot. He pulled back fast, ready to apologize, then froze. The woman standing next to him had sunbleached blonde hair with a thick streak of silver at the temple, cutoff denim overalls slung low on her hips, bare feet dusted with potting soil, toenails painted chipped cherry red. He’d know that face anywhere. Lila Marlow. Married to Jake Marlow, the guy who’d slid into second base spikes-up senior year, shattered Manny’s pitching elbow, killed the D1 scholarship he’d worked for since he was 8, taunted him for weeks after about “wasting his arm on stupid dreams.” The first surge of hot, old anger hit him hard enough he almost stepped back, but then she laughed, a low, rough sound he remembered from the bleachers, and wiped a smudge of dirt off her cheek with the back of her hand. “Sorry about that,” she said, leaning in so he could hear her over the band, her shoulder pressing light against his bicep, her skin smelling like lavender and damp mulch. “I’ve been hoarding those snake plants all week. Indestructible, perfect for guys who forget to water stuff.”
He blinked, stared at her for a beat. “You don’t remember me, do you,” he said, more statement than question. She tilted her head, studied his face, then her eyes widened, and she smacked his arm lightly, playful. “Manny Ruiz. Oh my god. I should’ve recognized that stupid Reds cap, you wore that thing every day senior year.” She leaned in again, and he could smell mint on her breath, see the faint smatter of freckles across her nose he’d never noticed back then. “I left Jake three years ago, for the record. Got sick of him yelling at the TV during football games and forgetting our anniversary every single year. And for what it’s worth? I always thought that slide was cheap as hell. He bragged about it for months, I told him he was a coward for going for your arm instead of the base.”
The old anger fizzled, fast, replaced by a fuzzy, warm buzz he hadn’t felt since his wife left him 8 years prior for a car salesman who wore diamond stud earrings. He listened to her talk, nodded along as she explained she’d moved to the neighborhood two months prior, opened a small nursery on the east side, loved working with plants because they didn’t talk back or lie about where they’d been until 2 a.m. She teased him about the tattered scout notebook sticking out of his back pocket, asked if he still threw a fastball that could leave a catcher’s palm bruised for three days, and he laughed so hard he snort-laughed, something he hadn’t done since he was a teenager. When she handed him a cold lemonade she’d stashed under the table, their fingers brushed, and he felt a jolt go all the way up his arm to the base of his skull. She held eye contact for a beat longer than she needed to, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half-smirk, and he didn’t look away.
She asked him if he wanted to walk back to her place a half hour later, said she had a 1972 Johnny Bench bobblehead she’d found at a garage sale a few weeks prior, knew he’d get a kick out of it, and had a whole shelf of rare succulents he could look at if he wanted. He hesitated for half a second, thought about the grudge he’d carried for 35 years, thought about the stupid rule he’d made after his wife left that he wouldn’t let anyone get close enough to disappoint him again, then nodded.
They walked down the sidewalk side by side, her bare feet brushing the curb next to his scuffed work boots, her carrying the snake plant in one hand, the other brushing the back of his every few steps. When she laced her calloused, dirt-streaked fingers through his, he didn’t pull away.
