Manny Ruiz, 52, has spent the last eight years living by a set of rules his ex-wife wrote before she left him for an RV salesman in Toledo. None of them make sense anymore, but he’s stubborn, the kind of guy who still wears his 2016 Cleveland Indians World Series hat even though the team changed its name and the roster turned over twice. His job as a minor league scout keeps him on the road 10 months out of the year, driving rusted backroads between high school baseball diamonds and DIII college fields, so he only has to abide by the dumbest rule—no talking to single women within a five block radius of his house—for 60 days each winter.
He only showed up to the town’s annual winter beer fest because his neighbor Ray begged, said he’d buy Manny a full flight of the dark porter the local brewery only makes in December. The tent smells like roasted chestnuts, wet wool, and fermented grain, the speakers tucked in the rafters blaring a slightly off-key cover of a John Mellencamp deep cut. Manny’s been leaning against a cinder block support for 20 minutes, hat pulled low over his eyes, trying to avoid the chatty retirees who keep asking him if he’s found the next superstar yet, when someone slams into his left side.
Spiced warm cider sloshes over the rim of the cup in her hand, splattering the sleeve of his flannel under his jacket. She’s 48, owns the pottery studio on Main Street, moved into the pale blue house across the street from him six months prior. He’s avoided her since she moved in, crossing the street if he saw her getting her mail, ducking inside if she waved from her porch, too hung up on that stupid ex-wife rule to even say hello. She’s a head shorter than him, her dark hair streaked with gray pulled back in a messy braid, pine and vanilla perfume curling off her sweater when she leans in to pat at the spill with a reindeer-print napkin pulled from her coat pocket. Her knuckles brush his forearm through the flannel, warm even through the fabric, and Manny’s throat goes dry.
She says she’s been trying to get his attention for months, thought he was either stuck up or half-deaf, and Manny finds himself laughing, a rough rusty sound he hasn’t pulled out since the last time he watched a kid hit a walk-off grand slam in the bottom of the ninth. He mumbles an excuse about being on the road a lot, and she snorts, says she sees his truck in the driveway every other week, he just books it inside like the house is on fire. He can’t argue with that, so he offers her a sip of his porter to make up for the cider she spilled, and she takes it, her fingers brushing his when she grabs the cup.
For 45 minutes they lean against that cinder block, talking over the noise of the crowd. He tells her about the 17-year-old lefty in Akron who throws 97 miles an hour, whose curveball breaks so sharp it makes batters trip over their own feet, who works 20 hours a week at a Shell station to help his mom pay rent on their single wide trailer. She tells him about the custom mugs she’s been making for the baseball team’s booster club, how she’s been putting tiny hidden baseball stitches on the bottom of each one. Manny’s torn the whole time, half of him screaming to make an excuse and leave, to go home to his empty couch and old scouting tapes before anyone sees them talking, before his ex hears about it and starts blowing up his phone with nasty texts. The other half of him can’t remember the last time someone looked at him like he’s interesting, like the stories he tells matter more than just filler for small talk.
The band switches to a slow, sludgy cover of Tom Petty’s Free Fallin’ right as a group of drunk college kids barrel past, shoving her hard enough that she stumbles forward into his chest. Manny’s hand shoots out to steady her, landing on her waist through her thick wool coat, and he doesn’t pull it away right away. She doesn’t step back either, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, her eyes locked on his, crinkling at the corners like she knows exactly how stupid he’s been this whole time.
Manny says he’s an idiot, that he avoided her this whole time because of a dumb rule his ex made up years before she even left. She snorts so hard she snorts, says she figured it was something like that, she’d heard stories about his ex from the ladies at the grocery store. He asks her if she wants to get out of there, says he has a whole case of that same porter in his basement fridge, and a stack of old scouting tapes from the 90s he can put on if she doesn’t mind bad camera quality.
She nods, lacing her fingers through his free hand, and Manny doesn’t even bother to throw away his half-empty cup before they walk out of the tent. The cold January air stings his cheeks when they step outside, snow flurries sticking to his hat brim, but he doesn’t feel cold at all, his hand wrapped tight around hers as they walk across the street to his house.
