Javi Mendez, 53, minor league baseball scout for the Texas Rangers farm system, had spent three hours hunched on splintered bleachers that afternoon, scribbling notes so fast his pen ran dry twice. He’d driven 180 miles from his rented ranch outside Amarillo for the left-handed high school pitcher throwing 92 mph fastballs that curved like they had a mind of their own, and the last thing he planned to do after the exhibition game ended was linger at the town’s annual peach festival. But the beer tent had cold Shiners on tap, the sun was dipping low enough to paint the sky tangerine, and his old Silverado’s AC had died two weeks prior, so he leaned against a weathered tent pole, popped the top off his second beer, and watched a group of kids chase fireflies across the softball field.
He was halfway through the beer when a woman tripped over a rolling cooler at his feet, arms windmilling as she fought to stay upright holding a case of spiked peach cider. Javi reacted fast, catching her by the elbow, his palm pressing to the soft, warm skin of her bare forearm, dotted with faint freckles from weeks of working outside. She smelled like ripe peaches and coconut sunscreen, and when she laughed, her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, lines that spoke of more smiles than frowns. “Shit, sorry,” she said, steadying herself, “I’ve been on my feet 12 hours, my brain’s running on nothing but peach cobbler and bad coffee.” Javi knew who she was. Everyone within 20 miles knew Clara Hale, owner of the town’s largest peach orchard, married to a deadbeat who’d skipped town three years prior but still hadn’t filed divorce papers, too busy running up gambling debts in Dallas to bother with the fine print. Small town gossip moved faster than a line drive to left field, and Javi knew being seen too close to her would get tongues wagging, so he pulled his hand back fast, mumbled a dismissive no problem, and turned his gaze back to the field.
She didn’t leave. She leaned against the tent pole right next to him, her bare shoulder brushing his flannel shirt through the open sleeve, and nodded at the scouting notebook tucked in his back pocket, the faded Rangers logo peeling at the edges. “Saw you at the game,” she said, passing him a sample cup of peach cider from the case at her feet. “Took more notes than my kid’s AP bio teacher during a final. You that impressed with Eli?” Javi blinked, surprised she’d paid him any attention. He spent most of his time flying under the radar in these small towns, not talking to anyone unless he had to, a habit he’d picked up after his 2015 divorce, when he’d decided casual connections weren’t worth the hassle of unpacking all the mess of his life. He told her Eli had a shot at going pro if he fixed his pickoff move, and she laughed, loud and warm, said she was Eli’s stepmom, had raised him since he was 7, knew he spent more time practicing his curveball than doing his math homework.
They talked for 40 minutes, the space between them shrinking so slowly Javi barely noticed it, until their knees were almost touching when they sat down on a stack of empty cider crates, until he could feel the heat coming off her skin even through his jeans, until she brushed a strand of salt and pepper hair off his forehead when a gust of wind blew it into his eyes, her thumb grazing his cheekbone by accident, leaving a tingle that lingered long after she pulled her hand away. The band started playing an old George Strait deep cut, and the crowd thinned out fast, everyone heading to the other side of the park for the fireworks show. “Wanna walk back to the orchard with me?” she asked, nodding at the line of peach trees visible over the tent roof. “I got a barrel of peaches I picked this morning, sweeter than any you’ve ever had. You can take a bag for the road.” Javi hesitated. He knew what people would say if they saw them leave together, knew the kind of rumors that would spread about the divorced scout and the married orchard owner, knew he was breaking every unwritten rule he’d made for himself over the past 8 years. But she was looking up at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth, and when she brushed her hand against his, lacing her fingers through his for half a second before she pulled away like she was scared he’d reject her, he said yes.
The walk to the orchard took 10 minutes, the grass damp under his work boots, the air thick with the sweet smell of ripe fruit. She stopped under a gnarled old peach tree, reached up to pick a fruit off a low branch, her t-shirt riding up just enough for him to see the faint, silvery scar on her lower back from a car accident she’d mentioned 10 minutes earlier. She turned around, held the peach out to him, and when he reached to take it, their fingers tangled together, and he kissed her, soft at first, then harder when she kissed him back, her hands fisting in the front of his flannel, her mouth tasting like peach cider and spearmint gum. They spent the next hour in the back of his Silverado, the windows rolled down, fireflies flickering through the glass, the distant boom of fireworks lighting up the cab every few seconds. He didn’t make any promises, didn’t ask her to leave with him, didn’t lie and say he’d be back anytime soon. She didn’t ask him to. She told him she was tired of being Clara Hale, the married orchard lady who didn’t get to have any fun, tired of people watching her every move waiting for her to mess up. He told her he hadn’t kissed anyone that wasn’t a one night stand in a bar three hours from home in 6 years.
He left at dawn, the sky streaked pink over the orchard, a paper bag full of peaches on the passenger seat, a crumpled napkin with her phone number scrawled on it tucked between the pages of his scouting notebook. He didn’t call her when he got to Oklahoma City three days later, didn’t text her a month later when he was back in the area scouting a catcher. But when he pulled onto the highway heading north that first morning, he reached over, grabbed a peach from the bag, bit into it, and let the sweet juice run down his chin without wiping it off for three miles.
