Milo Rourke, 52, minor league baseball scout for the Cincinnati Reds farm system, shook rain off his well-worn Ohio State cap as he ducked through the screen door of the tiny BBQ joint off Route 30. His flannel shirt was soaked through at the shoulders, his scuffed work boots squeaked on the linoleum, and the only other person in the place was a woman wiping down the counter with a ragged dish towel, her back to him. He’d driven three hours that day to watch a 19-year-old left-handed pitcher throw seven shutout innings, and all he wanted right then was a plate of smoked brisket and a cold IPA before he made the drive back to his rental house outside Dayton.
He slid into a booth by the window, the sticky vinyl sticking a little to the back of his damp jeans, and signaled for a menu. When the woman turned, his throat went dry. It was Lila. His brother’s widow. He hadn’t seen her since the funeral three years prior, had avoided every family gathering since, half out of guilt for the stupid, unshakable crush he’d carried on her since he was 22 and she’d shown up to his senior year college baseball game wearing his brother’s letter jacket, cheering louder for him than she did for the guy she was dating.
She paused for half a second, then smiled, the same crinkle around her hazel eyes he remembered, and walked over, wiping her hands on the hem of her flour-dusted denim apron. “Milo Rourke. I’d know that stupid hat anywhere. What are you doing all the way out here?” Her voice was still low, a little rough from years of breathing hickory smoke from the BBQ pit out back, and when she leaned down to set a paper menu on the table in front of him, her forearm brushed his, warm through the damp fabric of his shirt. He smelled lavender perfume mixed with the tang of vinegar-based barbecue sauce, and for a second he couldn’t speak.
He fumbled through his order: brisket, collard greens, a local IPA from the brewery two towns over. When she walked away he debated just slipping out the door, driving through the rain even if the roads were bad. It felt wrong, sitting here, wanting to talk to her, when she was the woman his brother had been married to for 22 years. He’d spent 12 years shutting every woman who showed interest in him out, still bitter about his ex-wife leaving him for a pharmaceutical sales rep she’d met on a work trip, convinced anyone who got close to him just wanted access to the major league game tickets he could score, the extra cash he made scouting top prospects. He didn’t need this mess.
But by the time she brought his order out, the rain was coming down so hard he could barely see the gas station across the street, the tin roof rattling so loud it drowned out the staticky Johnny Cash track playing on the jukebox. She shook her head, sliding into the booth across from him without asking. “Highway’s closed up north, mudslide took out a chunk of the shoulder. You’re stuck here for at least three hours, might as well not be a stranger.” Her knee brushed his under the table, denim on denim, and he tensed up for half a second before he relaxed, taking a sip of his beer cold enough to make his teeth ache.
The brisket was perfect, smoky, just the right amount of fat that it melted on his tongue, the collard greens had a sharp kick of hot sauce. They talked for an hour, first about the restaurant, how she’d taken it over after his brother died, how her 16-year-old daughter was already getting recruitment letters for college soccer, then about his scouting work, the kid he’d come to see that night, the ex-wife he still couldn’t bring himself to say a nice word about. She teased him about still being the same stubborn idiot he was when he’d climbed the oak tree in her and his brother’s backyard to get a neighbor’s cat down and fell, breaking his wrist in three places. He teased her about still burning the cornbread, just like she had at every family cookout back in the 90s.
When the jukebox switched over to a slow cover of “Hurt,” she reached across the table, brushing a wet strand of hair off his forehead, her calloused thumb grazing his cheek for half a second. “You know, Tom always said if anything ever happened to him, I should give you a call. Said you were the only other guy he knew that wouldn’t treat me like some trophy to drag to events, that you’d actually listen when I talked.”
Milo froze, the guilt he’d been carrying for 30 years warring with the warm, bright hum of desire he hadn’t felt since before his ex left. He’d spent so long convinced he was broken, that he’d never care about anyone again, that sitting here with Lila, her knee pressed steady against his, the smell of hickory smoke and lavender wrapping around him, felt like coming up for air after being underwater for years. “I didn’t think you’d ever want to talk to me,” he said, quiet, picking at the edge of his paper plate. “I always felt like I was betraying him, just… thinking about you.”
She laughed, soft, and laced her fingers through his across the table, her hand warm and steady in his. “Tom knew. He thought it was funny, how you’d trip over your own feet every time I walked in a room. Said it was the only time he ever saw you act like you didn’t have everything under control.”
The rain slowed to a drizzle an hour later, and when he stood up to leave, she handed him a paper bag with a slice of pecan pie, the kind she used to make for his birthday every year, and a napkin with her phone number scrawled on it in blue ballpoint. “Call me when you get back to Dayton. I’m free next weekend. We can go watch that pitcher kid of yours play, if you want.”
He walked out to his truck, the paper bag warm against his side, and pulled out his phone as soon as he turned the key in the ignition, adding her number to his contacts, his thumb hovering over the text button for ten seconds before he typed a quick message, saying he’d pick her up at 7 next Saturday.
