Rafe Mendez, 53, a minor league baseball scout who’d logged enough bleacher hours to spot a 92 mph fastball before the pitcher even released it, only showed up to the West Austin block party because his 19-year-old daughter threatened to stop texting him game updates from her college softball team if he kept holing up in his house like a feral cat. He leaned against the dented silver F-150 parked at the end of the street, twisting the cap off a Shiner Bock with his calloused thumb, the smell of charcoal and grilled jalapeño sausage curling through the humid July air. Kids darted past with water guns, their screams mixing with the slightly off-key fiddle of the old country cover band set up on a neighbor’s driveway. He’d lived in the house three months, and had spoken to a grand total of four neighbors, all of whom had asked him if he’d seen their lost dog.
He’d just taken his second sip when Lila Carter tripped over a neon pink scooter left in the grass, the tray of peach cobbler she was carrying tipping hard to the left. Rafe moved before he thought, one hand splaying across the soft curve of her waist to steady her, the other catching the edge of the ceramic tray before it could hit the ground. Cinnamon and warm baked fruit wafted up to him, mixed with the coconut sunscreen she’d slathered on her shoulders, freckled dark from hours working in her front yard garden. She laughed, a low, throaty sound that made the back of his neck tingle, and brushed a strand of honey blonde hair out of her face. He’d only waved at her twice before, once when he’d helped her haul a heavy oak bookshelf up her front steps on moving day, once when she’d left a jar of dill pickles on his porch with a sticky note that said “for the guy who doesn’t look like he eats anything but gas station burritos.”
She thanked him, wiping a smudge of cobbler filling off her linen dress, and leaned against the truck beside him, close enough that her bare shoulder brushed his sunburnt forearm every time a group of people walked past. She told him her husband was deployed to Kuwait with the Army Reserves, wouldn’t be home for another five months, that she’d dragged the cobbler to the party because she hated eating alone at her kitchen table. Rafe’s jaw tightened. He’d been cheated on twice in the last year of his marriage, had spent eight years hating guys who messed with married people, who didn’t respect the line between right and wrong. But when she tilted her head up to look at him, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, her gaze flicking from the scar across his left eyebrow to his mouth and back up again, that hard line he’d drawn in his head blurred at the edges.
She mentioned she’d seen him sitting on his front porch every night at 7:30, a beer in one hand, a scouting notebook in the other, watching the sun dip behind the oak trees. He blinked, surprised no one had ever paid that much attention to him before, not even his ex-wife. The band struck up a slow, twangy version of Amarillo by Morning, and she held out her hand, her nails painted a soft coral, chipped at the edges from planting marigolds that morning. He hesitated for three full beats, his brain screaming that this was a bad idea, that he’d end up hurting someone, that he was better off alone. But he’d spent so long alone, so long only talking to 20-year-old kids who dreamed of the big leagues, that the idea of being seen, of being wanted, was too good to pass up. He took her hand.
They danced in the middle of the street, other couples swirling around them, his hand resting light on her lower back, hers curled around the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the curly dark hair at the edge of his baseball cap. They were so close he could feel her breath warm against his jaw, and when she whispered that she wasn’t looking for forever, just someone to watch sunsets with, someone to split a pie with when she baked too much, no strings, no guilt, no expectations, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He told her he’d spent so long running from any kind of connection, scared he’d mess it up like he messed up his marriage, scared he’d be gone too much, too distant, too broken. She squeezed his hand, and told him broken things still deserved to be enjoyed.
They danced two more songs, until the band took a break and the first fireflies started blinking in the grass at the edge of the street. She said her golden retriever was probably home chewing through her throw pillows, and asked if he wanted to come over for a slice of cobbler and a cold beer. He nodded. They walked down the block side by side, their hands brushing every few steps, before he laced his calloused fingers through hers, the rough scar on his palm catching on the soft skin of her knuckles. The sun dipped below the oak trees lining the street, gilding the edge of her hair, and for the first time in eight years, Rafe didn’t feel the urge to pull away.
