Ray Voss, 53, retired minor league baseball scout, had spent the last eight years perfecting the art of avoiding anything tied to his ex-wife. He’d quit their shared church, swapped grocery stores, even skipped the annual Savannah sandlot tournament he’d run for 12 years, all because she’d made a habit of showing up with her shiny new real estate broker husband. His flaw? He held grudges like he held scouting reports: tight, unforgiving, never to be revisited once filed away.
The October charity chili cookoff at his usual dive off Bay Street was supposed to be a safe bet. He’d shown up an hour early, claimed the last bar stool at the far end, and was halfway through his second neat bourbon when he spotted her. Lena Marlow, his ex-wife’s younger sister, was manning the check-in table, laughing as she handed out paper bowls and plastic spoons to the crowd. He froze, hand halfway to his glass, and tried to slide off the stool before she caught sight of him.
He was too slow. Her eyes locked on his, crinkling at the corners as she waved, and she weaved through the crowd toward him before he could make it to the exit. She was wearing a faded 2019 Georgia Bulldogs hoodie, frayed at the cuffs, and scuffed work boots caked in mud from her side gig landscaping historic district yards. When she leaned against the bar next to him, their knees brushed through their jeans, and he caught a whiff of vanilla hand lotion and chili powder clinging to her sleeves. He’d always thought of her as the annoying 19-year-old kid sister who’d crashed their first date, but now, with a thin streak of silver running through her chestnut braid and a smudge of chili on her left cheek, he couldn’t look away.
“Thought I’d find you here,” she said, flagging the bartender for a root beer. Her voice was lower than he remembered, rougher from years of yelling over lawnmower engines. She shifted closer, her elbow brushing his bicep as she propped it on the bar, and he tensed up. This was wrong. His brain screamed that she was off limits, that getting within ten feet of anyone related to his ex was a recipe for disaster, that he’d only end up hurt again. But when she turned to face him, her dark eyes steady, he didn’t move away.
She pulled a beat-up leather notebook from the oversized pocket of her hoodie and slid it across the bar toward him. His scouting notebook, the one he’d thought he’d lost on a trip to a high school tournament in Alabama six years prior, the one filled with his scribbled notes on kids who’d ended up going pro, the one with a photo of his late beagle tucked in the back cover. His fingers brushed hers when he grabbed it, and a jolt ran up his arm, warm and unexpected.
“Found it in a box of my sister’s old stuff when she moved to Florida last month,” she said, picking at the label on her root beer bottle. “She never told me she had it. I always thought you were too good for her, you know. Hated how she cheated on you, how she acted like you wasting half your life driving around the south watching baseball was a burden instead of the coolest job in the world.”
He stared at her, stunned. No one had ever said that to him. Everyone in their small circle had taken his ex’s side, had patted him on the back and said it was a mutual split, that they’d grown apart. He’d spent years convincing himself he was unlovable, that he’d bored her, that his messy, nomadic career was the problem.
The cookoff wrapped up a little after nine, the crowd filtering out into the pouring October rain. Lena sighed, pulling out her phone to call an Uber, and said her old Honda had died in the parking lot that afternoon. Ray offered to drive her home before he could talk himself out of it. She smiled, and followed him out to his beat-up 2017 F150, rain soaking through the shoulders of her hoodie.
The cab smelled like pine air freshener and old baseball glove leather. The wipers slapped against the windshield in a steady rhythm, and the radio played old 90s country low in the background. Halfway to her small cottage in Ardsley Park, she reached over and rested her hand on his knee, her palm warm through the worn denim of his jeans. He froze for half a second, then covered her hand with his, his calloused scouting fingers wrapping around hers. He didn’t care about the grudge anymore, didn’t care about the stupid unspoken rule that he couldn’t be with his ex’s sister, didn’t care about any of the garbage he’d been carrying around for eight years.
He pulled into her driveway, the porch light glowing golden through the rain. They walked up the steps together, their shoulders brushing, and when she turned to face him on the porch, she leaned in and kissed him slow. She tasted like cinnamon and root beer, and her hand was soft when she cupped his jaw. When she pulled back, she nodded toward the door, and asked if he wanted to come in for coffee. He stepped across the threshold behind her, and the door clicked shut behind them.
