Manny Ruiz, 52, has spent the last 18 years as a minor league baseball scout, logging 40,000 miles a year in his dented Ford F-150, sleeping in cheap motels, and holding a 30-year grudge so tight it gives him tension headaches behind his left eye. He’s only back in Dayton, Ohio for four weeks of winter downtime, crashing on his sister’s pullout couch, when he ducks into a neighborhood craft bar to kill an hour before their annual Christmas dinner, the one where she badgers him nonstop about retiring and settling down.
The bar smells like roasted nuts and pine from the scraggly Christmas tree by the front door, Johnny Cash’s *Folsom Prison Blues* hums low through the speakers, and the cold of his IPA pint seeps through the glass to bite at the calluses on his palm, calluses worn thick from squeezing radar guns and scribbling scouting notes in spiral notebooks during rain delays. He’s halfway through his second drink when he spots her, two seats down, leaning against the bar to laugh at something the bartender said, silver streaks cutting through the same dark curly hair he used to twist around his finger when they were 17.
His first instinct is to bolt. He’d skipped every high school reunion for a reason, had blocked her on social media the second a mutual friend posted a photo of her at a wedding in Brooklyn, had spent three decades convincing himself he was glad she’d left town without a proper goodbye to chase a marketing job in New York. But she’s already turned her head, her eyes locking onto his, and he can’t look away. The crinkles at the corner of her eyes are the exact same, the way she tilts her chin when she’s surprised is the exact same, and for half a second he feels like he’s 17 again, sitting in the parking lot of the local drive-in, too nervous to kiss her for the first time.
She stands, sliding her leather tote over her shoulder, and crosses the two feet between them, her cashmere sweater sleeve brushing his forearm as she pulls out the empty seat next to him. The fabric is softer than anything he’s touched in months, and he flinches like he’s been burned. “Manny Ruiz,” she says, her voice a little lower than he remembers, warm as honey. “I thought that was you. I’ve been back in town three weeks taking care of my mom, I wondered if I’d run into you.”
He fumbles for a response, his throat dry. Lila. He hasn’t said her name out loud in 25 years. They make small talk first, stilted, her asking about his job, him asking about her mom, who’s recovering from a stroke. She admits she’d regretted leaving without saying goodbye the second she landed in New York, had been too scared to call, worried he’d tell her to go to hell. He admits he’d been an idiot, had let his pride fester instead of reaching out, had gone through two divorces because he could never stop comparing every woman he dated to her.
They shift closer as they talk, their knees almost touching under the bar, the space between them thick with unspoken words and the faint vanilla scent of her lotion, the same scent she wore to prom. She reaches across him to grab a peanut from the bowl sitting in front of his plate, her fingers brushing his knuckles, and neither of them pulls away. Her skin is warm, a little chapped from the cold outside, and he feels a jolt run up his arm straight to his chest, sharper than any cup of bad gas station coffee he’s chugged on 6 a.m. drives to ballparks.
She tells him she’s going to be in town for at least six months, maybe longer if her mom’s physical therapy goes well, that she quit her job in New York and is thinking of opening a small plant shop downtown, something she’s wanted to do since they were kids. He tells her he’s got three more weeks left in town before he hits the road for spring training, that he’s got nothing planned every night, that he’d love to help her fix up the storefront she’s been looking at.
He pays for both their drinks when they’re ready to leave, the bartender giving him a knowing grin that he ignores. The air outside is cold enough to make his nose burn, snow falling in soft, wet flakes that stick to the collar of his flannel. He pulls his wool coat off and holds it out to her, and when she slips her arms into the sleeves, her hand brushes his, and he laces his fingers through hers without thinking.
She doesn’t pull away. They turn the corner toward her mom’s bungalow, their boots crunching in the thin layer of slush on the sidewalk, and he doesn’t let go of her hand the whole walk.
