Rafe Marquez, 53, a minor league scout for the Cincinnati Reds farm system, ducked into Mabel’s Bar just outside Chillicothe as the spring storm split open the sky, the air inside thick with the smell of fried pickles and stale draft beer. His boots were caked with red clay from the high school field he’d spent three hours perched on a folding chair at, watching a lanky left-handed pitcher with a 92 mph fastball and a habit of throwing punches at opposing catchers who talked too much trash. He’d turned down the local athletic director’s offer to grab barbecue earlier, said he wanted to beat the rain back to his motel, but the sky opened too fast, sheets of water turning the two-lane road into a shiny, unnavigable mess. He slid onto the scuffed vinyl bar stool, flagged the bartender for a Pabst Blue Ribbon, and started picking at the frayed edge of his faded Reds cap, the one stitched with Pete Rose’s signature that he’d owned since he was 16. He’d not let anyone get within arm’s length emotionally since his wife left him for a pharmaceutical rep in 2015, told his buddies back in Cincinnati he was playing the field on the road, but the truth was he’d kissed exactly one person in eight years, a drunk woman at a cousin’s wedding who’d mistaken him for her high school boyfriend.
The bell above the door jingled twenty minutes later, and she walked in, rain soaking the hem of her cream cable-knit sweater, jeans tight across her hips, hair pulled back in a messy braid that had come loose at the nape, stray strands stuck to her damp neck. He recognized her immediately: Lena, the AD’s wife, he’d met her at a fall meet and greet three months prior, when she’d brought homemade chocolate chip cookies to the field for the team, warm and oozing melty chocolate chips that had gotten all over his scouting notebook. She sat two stools down, set her dripping polka-dot umbrella in the stand by the door, ordered a glass of pinot grigio, and when the bartender slid it across the bar, her forearm brushed his, warm, the sleeve of her sweater damp, and she smelled like lavender laundry detergent and rain on hot asphalt. He froze, and she glanced over, held his eye for three full beats, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half-smile, before she took a slow sip of her wine.
Small talk unfolded easy, no forced lulls. She asked if he was here scouting that lefty everyone in the local rec league was gossiping about, he nodded, said the kid’s got a shot at the draft if he stops wasting energy yelling at umpires for balls and strikes calls he doesn’t like. She laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the hum of the neon Coors Light sign behind the bar, and shifted one stool closer, so their knees were almost touching under the worn wood bar top. She said her husband was in Indianapolis for a statewide AD conference, forgot their first wedding anniversary three days ago, texted her a blurry photo of a convention center hot dog instead of flowers or even a half-hearted apology. Rafe’s first instinct was to deflect, to say he should shoot her husband a text to say hi, but he couldn’t look away from the faint smudge of mascara under her left eye, like she’d cried in her car before coming in. He pulled the worn 1972 Nolan Ryan card out of his wallet, the one he’d carried since he was 10 years old, creased right across the pitcher’s left shoulder, and passed it to her. When her fingers brushed his as she took it, he felt a jolt up his arm, like he’d touched a live electric fence on the edge of a farm field. She ran her index finger over the crease on the card’s edge, said her dad used to collect baseball cards too, sold them all when he got pancreatic cancer to pay for experimental treatment that didn’t work.
The bar cleared out fast after 10, the bartender turned off half the neon signs, wiped down the bar top with a rag that smelled like vinegar, and nodded at them like he knew they weren’t in a rush to leave. The rain was still lashing the windows, streaking the view of the parking lot into blurs of red and white taillights from the few cars passing by. She leaned in, her knee pressing firm against his now, her breath smelling like white wine and peppermint gum, and said she didn’t want to go back to her empty four bedroom house, didn’t want to watch the same bad house flipping reality show she watched every night her husband was out of town. Rafe’s throat went dry. He knew this was the kind of stupid mistake that can get him blacklisted from every high school in southern Ohio, knew he’d spent eight years building a reputation as a straight shooter who didn’t mess with other people’s personal lives, knew the tattered photo of his ex-wife was still tucked behind the Nolan Ryan card in his wallet. But he couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like he was the only person in the room, not just a guy with a clipboard and a radar gun who only cared about fastball velocity.
He paid the tab, slipped the card back into his wallet, grabbed his oilskin jacket off the back of the stool. She held her umbrella over both of them as they ran to his beat-up 2018 F150 parked at the edge of the lot, rain soaking through the shoulder of his flannel shirt, cold against his skin. He opened the passenger door for her, and she paused on the step, one hand on the door frame, the other resting light on his chest, and pressed a soft, slow kiss to his jaw, the rain dripping off the brim of his cap onto her cheek. He reached up, brushed a strand of wet hair off her face, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, and she pulled him closer, her lips brushing his for the first time, warm and soft and nothing like the stiff, obligatory kisses he remembered from the end of his marriage. He fumbled for the truck keys in his jeans pocket, unlocked the back door, and stepped in after her, the rain tapping steady against the tinted windows.
