Marlon Reyes, 53, minor league baseball scout for the Kansas City Royals farm system, leaned against the splintered wooden post of the north Georgia peach festival beer tent, half-empty IPA sweating in his grip. He’d driven 12 hours back to his hometown the night before, only came because his 82-year-old mom begged him to make an appearance, and he’d hidden in the tent for 45 minutes to avoid small talk with former classmates who all wanted to ask when he’d finally settle down. He hated crowds, hated the sticky sweet smell of fried peach pies clogging the air, hated that Roger Hale, current mayor and the guy who’d cheated him out of a D1 baseball scholarship senior year, was up on the main stage grinning like he hadn’t derailed Marlon’s shot at playing pro 35 years prior.
The crowd shifted, and a woman stumbled sideways into his chest, her linen sundress soft against his bare forearms, the scent of peach blossom and coconut sunscreen wrapping around him before she righted herself. She was 38, give or take, wavy auburn hair pulled back in a loose braid, freckles across her nose, hazel eyes crinkling with embarrassment as she apologized. Marlon recognized her immediately: Lila, Hale’s wife of two years, the woman he’d seen walking the high school baseball field twice a week with a bag of seed for the community garden tucked under her arm. He’d never spoken to her, had a strict rule against engaging with anyone in Hale’s orbit, but he found himself grinning back when she laughed and said she’d been avoiding the mayor’s donor circle for 20 minutes and the beer tent was the only spot no one would think to look for her.
She ordered a hard seltzer, leaned against the post next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed when someone squeezed past. She asked about the faded Royals logo on his polo, and he told her he scouted high school and D3 prospects across the southeast, spent 220 days a year on the road, slept in his truck half the time to save money. She nodded, asked intelligent questions about what he looked for in a pitcher, didn’t bat an eye when he ranted about Hale’s stupid new ordinance that cut the high school baseball team’s field maintenance budget by 40% to pay for a downtown statue of himself. She snort-laughed when he made a joke about Hale’s obvious hair plugs, leaned into his arm for half a second to steady herself when she laughed so hard she spilled seltzer on her dress, her hand resting on his bicep long enough for him to feel the warmth of her palm through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Marlon’s chest felt tight. He’d not so much as flirted with a woman since his wife left him 8 years prior, had convinced himself he was better off alone, no mess, no obligations, nothing to distract him from scouting. Worse, this was Hale’s wife, the one person in town he should be avoiding more than anyone else. He should make an excuse, leave, drive to his mom’s house, crash early, head out to scout that left-handed pitcher in Birmingham at 6 a.m. like he’d planned. But he stayed, told her stories about scouting trips where he’d slept in a rest stop parking lot during a tornado, where a kid had thrown a no-hitter in front of 12 people in the middle of a cornfield in Iowa. She listened, held eye contact the whole time, didn’t check her phone once.
The first firework burst overhead, pink and gold, lighting up the sky above the peach orchards. The crowd surged forward, a group of drunk teens carrying snow cones barreled past, and Lila stepped back to avoid getting hit, pressing her back fully against Marlon’s chest for three full seconds. He could feel the curve of her shoulders through her dress, her hair brushed his chin, and when she tilted her head back to look up at him, her pupils were blown wide, she didn’t move away. He almost leaned down to kiss her, then caught sight of Hale on the stage 15 feet away, waving at the crowd, and froze.
Lila smiled, pulled a crumpled scrap of receipt from her purse, scribbled an address on it with a pen she pulled from her bra, slipped it into the palm of his hand. Her fingers lingered on his, slow, deliberate, no one was watching. “Hale’s driving to Atlanta for a conference tomorrow at 7 a.m.,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear. “I live in the old cottage on the west edge of the orchard. No one ever drives out there this time of year.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze, then turned and walked back toward the stage, slipping her hand into Hale’s like nothing had happened.
Marlon folded the receipt, tucked it into the inner pocket of his polo, finished the last of his IPA. He pulled out his phone, pulled up the text thread with the left-handed pitcher’s coach, typed that he’d be a day late, he had a personal thing come up. He hit send, shoved his phone back in his pocket, leaned his head back to watch the last of the fireworks burst bright orange over the rows of peach trees. He unlocked his truck, tossed his duffel bag into the passenger seat, and turned left instead of right when he pulled out of the festival parking lot, heading for the orchard instead of his mom’s house.
