Manny Rios, 57, minor league scout for the Texas Rangers, has not voluntarily attended a community event since his wife’s funeral three years prior. He’s at the small-town east Texas fire department cookoff only because the 17-year-old left-handed pitcher he’s been chasing for six months has a dad on the force, and showing face felt like the only way to avoid the kid signing with the Astros scout who’d been sniffing around last week. He leans against the split-rail fence bordering the parking lot, cold longneck in one hand, scouting notebook stuffed in the back pocket of his worn work jeans, and tries not to look like he’s counting the minutes until he can leave. The air smells like smoked brisket, charcoal, and cheap citrus body spray from the cluster of teen girls hovering by the cotton candy stand, and the din of classic country and yelling kids makes his ears ring a little.
He’s mid-mental rundown of the pitcher’s last three outings when a woman steps into his line of sight, holding a paper plate stacked high with brisket, coleslaw, and a slice of white bread. She’s in faded high-waisted jeans, scuffed work boots, a cutoff flannel tied around her waist, and there’s a smudge of charcoal on the sharp line of her jaw. “My nephew said you’d be over here hiding,” she says, holding the plate out, and when Manny reaches to take it, their knuckles brush. The contact sends a sharp, warm jolt up his arm, the kind he hasn’t felt since before his wife got sick. He blinks, and she laughs, bright and low. “Jesse. The kid who throws 94 like he’s angry at the catcher’s mitt. I’m Lila, his aunt. Run the honey farm ten miles west of town.”
Manny nods, takes a bite of brisket that’s so good he almost forgets to respond. She leans against the fence next to him, close enough he can smell jasmine shampoo mixed with wood smoke, and doesn’t make the mindless small talk he’s come to dread at these things. She asks about the weirdest prospects he’s ever scouted, laughs when he tells her about the 19-year-old in west Texas who threw 97 but refused to pitch unless his pet goat was tied up behind the dugout. He finds himself asking about her honey farm, listens when she rants about the feral hogs that keep breaking into her hives, and notices she keeps holding eye contact half a beat longer than strictly necessary, her shoulder brushing his every time a group of people walks past and she shifts to make room.
When the line for brisket dies down, she leads him to the dented tailgate of his 2018 F150, and they sit side by side, knees knocking every so often when one of them shifts. He’s half convinced he’s making up the tension, that she’s just being nice to the guy who might sign her nephew, until she leans forward to grab a napkin off the seat of his truck and her hair brushes his cheek, soft and smelling like that same jasmine. He’s fighting the urge to reach up and wipe that charcoal smudge off her jaw, fighting the guilt that nags at him every time he feels that spark of interest, like he’s cheating on the wife he buried three years ago. He tells himself he’s too old for this, that she’s at least ten years younger than him, that he’s just lonely from spending 200 nights a year alone in motel rooms.
A group of kids down the parking lot set off a pack of cheap firecrackers without warning, sharp pops that make everyone within ten feet jump. Lila flinches hard, leans into him instinctively, and Manny’s arm goes around her waist before he can think better of it. Her skin is warm through the thin cotton of her t-shirt, and she doesn’t pull away. She turns her face to look up at him, and that’s when he does it, brushes his thumb across her jaw to wipe the charcoal smudge away. His hand lingers for half a second, and she tilts her chin a little into the touch, her smile softening.
“Thought you were never gonna do that,” she says, and Manny huffs a laugh, the tight knot of guilt and anxiety in his chest loosening for the first time in years. He admits he hasn’t so much as flirted with anyone since his wife died, that he’d convinced himself he was done with that part of his life. She nods, tells him she got divorced two years ago after 15 years of marriage to a guy who cared more about his hunting lease than he did about her, that she knows what it feels like to be scared to let someone new in.
They talk for another hour, until the sun dips below the tree line and the fire department starts turning off the grills. She asks him if he’s got plans before he drives out to his next scouting stop the next afternoon, and when he says no, she invites him out to her farm to see the hives, try the wildflower honey she just harvested. He says yes before he can overthink it. She stands up, brushes crumbs off her jeans, and takes his empty beer bottle from his hand to toss in the nearby trash can, her fingers brushing his palm as she takes it. He watches her walk back to the grill where her nephew is waving her over, and for the first time in three years, he doesn’t reach for his scouting notebook to fill the quiet.
