Rafe O’Malley, 53, has spent the last 11 years crisscrossing the southeast in a dented 2012 Ford F-150, scouting unpolished high school and Division III baseball prospects for a low-level minor league affiliate out of Charlotte. His biggest flaw, one he’s stopped fighting, is that he hasn’t let anyone outside of his work circle hold a real conversation with him since his wife, Ellie, died of ovarian cancer seven years prior. He avoids family gatherings, skips the neighborhood block parties, spends his off days in his unrenovated Asheville bungalow watching old game tapes and eating frozen burritos, convinced any new connection would be a betrayal of the 12 years he had with Ellie.
He slumps onto a vinyl bar stool at the craft beer spot three blocks from his house at 7 PM on a Tuesday, fresh off a three-week road trip through Alabama and Georgia, the leather cover of his scouting notebook cracked at the spine, frayed team logo peeling off the front. He nods at the bartender, orders the hazy IPA he used to get with Ellie on date nights, and keeps his eyes fixed on the chipped wooden bar top, determined to drink his beer in silence and head home before the post-work crowd gets too loud.
The scent of jasmine lotion hits him before the person even sits down, lighter than the lotion Ellie used to wear, but close enough that his chest tightens for half a second. He glances up, and his throat goes dry. It’s Lena Voss, Ellie’s younger cousin, the one who used to show up to their backyard cookouts covered in clay dust from her ceramic studio, who’d sit and listen to him ramble about prospect mechanics for an hour while everyone else wandered off to play cornhole. He hasn’t seen her since Ellie’s funeral, when she hugged him so tight his ribs ached and left a tin of his favorite chocolate chip cookies on his porch three days later, no note. He’d never reached out to thank her.
“Rafe?” She says it soft, like she’s not sure it’s him, and she tucks a strand of streaked gray-blonde hair behind her ear, her left hand dotted with flecks of blue glaze. “I thought that was you. I heard you were still scouting, but I never ran into you around town.”
He nods, his tongue thick, and gestures to the empty stool next to him before he can think better of it. The bartender sets his IPA down, the fizz bubbling over the rim slightly, leaving a sticky ring on the bar. Lena orders a sour cherry cider, and when she leans in to grab the glass from the bartender, her knee brushes his under the bar. He doesn’t move his leg away.
They talk first about small, safe things: the new mixed-use development going in down the street, the terrible rain that flooded half the western North Carolina roads last month, the bluegrass band setting up in the corner of the bar that plays every Tuesday. He finds himself opening up before he can stop himself, telling her about the 17-year-old left-handed pitcher he found outside of Tuscaloosa who throws 92 miles an hour and can hit a 400-foot home run, about the coach who tried to pass off his 22-year-old nephew as a high school senior to get him a contract, about the motel room he stayed in last week that had a leaky ceiling that dripped right onto his pillow all night. She laughs loud at the nephew story, and her shoulder bumps his when she leans in to point at the scouting notebook he’d pulled out to show her a scribbled report, her knit sweater soft against the frayed flannel of his shirt.
The conflict twists tight in his chest the whole time they talk: half of him is screaming that this is wrong, that Ellie’s extended family would whisper behind their backs, that he’s being disloyal, that he should pay his tab and leave right now. The other half of him hasn’t felt this light, this seen, in seven years, hasn’t wanted to keep talking to someone past the first five minutes of awkward small talk for as long as he can remember. He watches her lick cider off her lower lip when she takes a sip, and he feels the same flutter he felt the first time he saw Ellie at a college baseball game, 20 years prior.
She rests her hand on the bar six inches from his, her fingers calloused at the tips from wedging and trimming clay, a small silver scar running across her knuckle from a kiln accident when she was 22. When she passes him a bowl of salted peanuts the bartender set down between them, their hands brush, and he doesn’t pull away. He lingers, his thumb brushing the back of her hand for half a second, and she doesn’t flinch, just looks up at him, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners different than Ellie’s, softer, no trace of pity or judgment.
“I almost reached out a dozen times after the funeral,” she says, quiet enough that only he can hear her over the first strum of the bluegrass band’s guitar. “I didn’t want to overstep. I knew you were hurting, and everyone kept saying you wanted to be left alone.”
“I did want to be left alone,” he admits, and he twists the paper coaster under his beer glass between his fingers, the cardstock soft and damp from condensation. “For a long time. I thought if I let anyone in, it’d be like I was forgetting her.” He pauses, swallows hard, and nods at the scar on her knuckle. “I remember that accident. Ellie drove you to the ER, right? You were making her that wedding vase for the reception.”
Lena smiles, and her finger brushes the faint silver line. “Yeah. I still have that vase, actually. It cracked in the kiln the day before the wedding, so I couldn’t give it to her. I kept it on my studio shelf anyway.”
The tight knot of guilt and fear in his chest loosens, all the resistance melting away just a little. He’s not forgetting Ellie. He’s just remembering that he’s still alive. He flags the bartender down, pays his tab and hers, and tucks his scouting notebook back into the inner pocket of his worn canvas jacket.
“There’s a taco truck around the corner that makes carnitas as good as the spot we used to hit after spring training games in Tucson,” he says, and he slides off the bar stool, holding his hand out to her. “If you don’t have plans, we could go get some. No pressure. Just if you want.”
She slips her hand into his, her palm warm and dusted with a faint residue of clay, and stands up. The mountain air is cool when they step outside, carrying the smell of pine and fried dough from the food truck parked down the block, the sound of the bluegrass band leaking out through the bar’s open windows behind them. He doesn’t let go of her hand as they walk, slow, no hurry, the streetlights turning the damp pavement gold around them.
