Rafe Mendez, 52, has spent the last 12 years as a minor league baseball scout, logging 30,000 miles a year across the Midwest in his beat-up Ford F-150, a worn leather notebook stuffed in his back pocket full of pitch velocity numbers and notes on kids who throw too hard for their own good. His biggest flaw, if you ask his older sister, is that he’s let his resentment toward his ex-wife shrink his world down to ball fields, dive bar booths, and the quiet two-bedroom ranch he keeps on the edge of town, no social events, no setups, no one who might even know her name. He’d only agreed to come to the county fair that late August night because the 17-year-old left-handed pitcher he’d been tracking was showing off for college scouts between the 4-H calf show and the demolition derby.
He’s leaning against the beer garden fence, sweating through the sleeves of his faded Louisville Bats flannel, condensation from his light lager dripping down his wrist, when he turns to grab a napkin and slams right into someone holding a cherry slushie. The slushie sloshes over the edge, splatters on his scuffed work boot. He opens his mouth to apologize, and freezes. It’s Clara Bennett, his ex-wife’s college roommate, the woman who’d glared daggers at him across every grocery store aisle and town festival for a decade, who’d once told his sister he was a selfish piece of garbage who didn’t deserve to be happy.
She’s wearing ripped high-waisted jeans, a faded “Washington County Animal Rescue” hoodie, a grass stain high on her left knee from hauling a stray corgi out of the 4-H barn earlier, her gray-streaked brown hair braided over one shoulder. She laughs, swipes a napkin from the stack on the nearby table, and dabs at the slush on his boot before he can stop her. “Don’t worry. I’ve been meaning to stop being mad at you anyway. Found out last month at my cousin’s bridal shower your ex was the one who cheated on you, not the other way around. She got sloppy drunk and admitted it. I owe you an apology.”
He blinks, too stunned to speak for a second, then nods at the empty picnic table tucked in the corner of the beer garden, out of the direct line of sight of most of the town regulars. She follows, sits so close their thighs brush under the table when she shifts to cross her legs. The air smells like fried oreos, cow manure from the barn down the path, and the coconut shampoo she’s wearing, sharp and sweet over the stale beer smell of the garden. They talk for 40 minutes, first about the stray corgi she’d found, then about his scouting trips, the kid who brought his pet duck to a tryout last spring, the way small town gossip sticks like gum on a sidewalk. She holds eye contact the whole time, no glancing away to check her phone, no forced laughs, leans in when he talks, her shoulder brushing his every time someone yells from the tilt-a-whirl next to them. When they both reach for the last napkin at the same time, their fingers brush, and she doesn’t pull away, just smirks and lets him take it.
He’s fighting two impulses the whole time: one, to stand up, say goodnight, go home, avoid the inevitable gossip mill that will explode if anyone sees them together, if his ex finds out. The other, to lean in, kiss the cherry slushie stain off the corner of her mouth, stop letting a 12 year old lie run his life. The first firework booms overhead before he can make a decision, red and gold sparks painting the dark sky, everyone in the beer garden standing up to cheer. She stands too, presses her shoulder fully into his, the heat of her seeping through his flannel, and looks up at him.
“I’ve wanted to talk to you for three months,” she says, loud enough for only him to hear over the fireworks and the crowd noise. “Was scared you’d tell me to go to hell.”
He doesn’t think. He leans down, kisses her, tastes cherry slushie and the mint gum she’s been chewing, her hand coming up to rest on his chest right over the worn Bats logo on his shirt, her fingers tangled in the frayed edge of the fabric. No one notices them, everyone’s staring up at the sky, another round of blue and white fireworks bursting overhead, the boom rattling in his chest.
When the show ends, the crowd disperses, yelling and laughing, kids dragging oversized stuffed animals behind them, the Ferris wheel creaking as it slows to a stop. He tucks a loose strand of her braid behind her ear, his calloused fingers brushing her cheek, the calluses from 30 years of gripping baseball bats and opening beer bottles matching the calluses on her hands from hauling dog crates and bales of hay for the rescue. He asks if she wants to get pancakes at the 24 hour diner on the edge of town, the one that puts extra chocolate chips in the short stacks, no pickles on the side if you ask nicely.
She nods, laces her fingers through his, and lets him lead her toward the parking lot, the distant sound of the demolition derby’s crash noises echoing behind them. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder to see if anyone is watching.
