Ray Garza, 59, has spent 22 years scouting west Texas minor league talent, his truck’s odometer ticking past 420,000 miles on back roads between Lubbock and Laredo, his notebook crammed with scribbled pitch speeds, swing mechanics, and the occasional doodle of his late wife Elena’s favorite sunflowers. He’s avoided every neighborhood event since she died six years prior, hasn’t been on a date since, hasn’t even so much as flirted with a waitress, convinced any joy that didn’t involve scouting or fixing up his old hunting cabin was a betrayal of the 28 years they had together. The only reason he’s at the Midland west side beer garden on a 92 degree July Tuesday is the little league all-star game wrapped up 20 minutes earlier, and he wanted a cold Shiner Bock before he drove the 20 minutes back to his empty, too-quiet house.
Then she slides into the bench across from him, no invitation, the scent of coconut sunscreen and lime seltzer cutting through the mesquite smoke and fried onion smell from the food truck at the edge of the lot. It takes him three full seconds to place her: Lila Marquez, Elena’s cousin’s kid, the girl he used to babysit when she was 8, the one who’d beg him to bring back minor league bobbleheads from his road trips, who’d fall asleep on his couch during Sunday baseball games with sticky popsicle residue on her cheeks. She’s 38 now, divorced two years, he remembers Elena mentioning it at a family funeral a while back, but he’d skipped the reception so he hadn’t seen her in over a decade.
She leans forward, elbows on the splintered pine table, and her knee brushes his under the bench, warm through the thin fabric of his worn Wranglers. He flinches at first, half ready to mumble an excuse to leave, but she grins, the same gap between her two front teeth she had when she was 10, and the laugh that comes out is deeper, raspier than he remembers, roughened by years of cheering at her son’s baseball games. “You look exactly the same,” she says, tapping the frayed brim of his scouting cap, the one with the Midland RockHounds logo faded almost to white. “Still wear that stupid hat everywhere, still have that same scowl like you’re judging a 17 year old’s curveball mid-windup.”
He snorts, takes a sip of his beer, the cold malt sharp on his tongue. The hum of George Strait’s *Amarillo by Morning* drifts from the speakers strung between gnarled live oak trees, and the sound of kids chasing each other with water guns fades as they run toward the playground at the far end of the lot. Lila’s knee stays pressed to his, not pulling away, and he can feel the heat of her calf through his jeans, a weird, tight flutter in his chest he hasn’t felt since he asked Elena out for the first time in 1989. He’s furious at himself for it, first. Disgusted, almost. This is Lila, the kid he’d taught to skip rocks at the lake, the one he’d bailed out of a speeding ticket when she was 19, the one who’d cried so hard on his shoulder at Elena’s funeral her snot got on his flannel shirt. He shouldn’t be noticing the freckles splayed across her nose, the way her cutoff shorts ride up her thigh, the silver callus on her left finger from where she grips her physical therapy tools—she’d mentioned a few years back she works with injured high school athletes now.
She orders another round, waving off his attempt to pay, and when she passes him his fresh beer, her fingers brush his, her skin soft but calloused at the knuckles, same as his, rough from years of working with her hands. “I’ve seen you at Javi’s games for the past month,” she says, nodding toward the field where the all-star game was held; her 12 year old son is the shortstop, Ray had already noted his name in his notebook, fast reflexes, good arm, great field awareness. “I was too scared to say hi. Thought you’d think I was being weird, or that you’d only remember me as the kid who spilled grape juice on your favorite leather jacket.”
He laughs, genuine, the first real laugh he’s had that didn’t involve a dumb joke from a fellow scout in months. “I still have that jacket,” he says, tapping the pocket of his flannel shirt, tied around his waist. “Got the stain cleaned, cost me 40 bucks. I still bill you for it in my head.”
She snorts, leans in a little closer, her coconut perfume mixing with the sunscreen, and he can see the faint laugh lines around her eyes, the way her eyelashes are clumped a little from sweat. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 16,” she says, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, like she’s commenting on the humidity, and Ray freezes mid-sip, beer sloshing a little over the edge of the bottle onto his hand. He can’t speak for a second, his throat tight, half horror half something else, warm and bright and forbidden, sitting heavy in his gut. “Don’t look so horrified,” she teases, nudging his foot under the table with hers. “I never said anything back then, obviously. You were married to Elena, you were 37, I was a stupid kid with a thing for older guys who brought me gifts and didn’t treat me like I was too young to talk about baseball. But I saw you here, alone, and I figured I’d say something. You don’t have to respond. I just didn’t want to regret not saying it.”
He sits quiet for a minute, wiping the beer off his hand with a crumpled napkin, the rough paper scraping his knuckles. He thinks of Elena, how she always used to tease him for being too stubborn to let anyone in, how she’d told him a month before she died that if he didn’t find someone to be happy with after she was gone, she’d come back and haunt him by hiding all his favorite scouting tapes. He thinks of the empty house waiting for him, the quiet nights where he just watches old baseball games alone, the way Lila’s knee is still pressed to his, warm and steady, no expectation in her eyes, just that same easy grin she’s had since she was a kid.
“I’m not horrified,” he says finally, his voice rougher than he means it to be. “I just… I always thought of you as that little kid with pigtails. It’s a little weird, is all. Good weird. I just feel old.”
She laughs, and this time she reaches across the table, puts her hand on top of his, her palm warm against his calloused knuckles. “You’re not old,” she says, her thumb brushing the faded scar on the back of his hand, the one he got fixing his truck’s engine in 2019. “You’re just… you. I still have all those bobbleheads you brought me, by the way. They’re on a shelf in my living room. Javi thinks they’re dorky, but I won’t let him touch them.” She pauses, bites her lower lip a little, the way she used to when she was asking for something she thought she wouldn’t get. “Wanna come see them? Javi’s at his dad’s house tonight. No pressure. We can just drink beer and talk baseball, if you want.”
He nods before he even thinks about it, the tight flutter in his chest spreading to his cheeks, warm and giddy, like he’s 20 years old again, asking Elena out for the first time. He pays for their next round even though she protests, tucks his scouting notebook into the back pocket of his jeans, and follows her across the gravel lot, the crunch of the stones under his boots loud in his ears, the summer air thick with the smell of jasmine from the bushes along the fence line. She opens the passenger door of her beat up Tacoma for him, and when he climbs in, she reaches across the center console to buckle his seatbelt for him, her hand brushing the worn cotton of his t-shirt over his chest, her fingers lingering for half a second longer than necessary.
He looks over at her as she turns the key in the ignition, the radio flicking on to a 90s country station, and she grins at him, the gap between her teeth glinting in the streetlight as she pulls out of the parking lot onto the empty residential road.
