Fifty-two year old minor league baseball scout Ronan O’Malley stood slouched against the splintered wooden post of the town fall festival chili tent, cold Pabst in one hand, crumpled third-place ribbon tucked into the breast pocket of his faded red flannel. He’d spent three days slow-smoking the brisket for his entry, had argued for ten minutes with the judge who’d docked him points for “excessive cayenne”, and was half a second from ditching the entire event to go back to his garage and work on his 1972 F-100 when someone’s shoulder slammed into his side.
The spiced cider sloshing over the rim of the woman’s mason jar soaked a dark splotch right over the “Toledo Mud Hens” patch sewn to his shirt front. She yelped, fumbling for a crumpled napkin in her jeans pocket, and when she swiped at the wet fabric her knuckles brushed the scar on his chest he’d gotten from a line drive in college ball. Ronan recognized her immediately: Mara Carter, 49, the county public health director he’d screamed at during a town council meeting nine months prior over the mask mandate for local gyms. He’d called her a power-hungry bureaucrat then, had stormed out before she could respond, and had avoided every town event she was likely to attend ever since.
The scent of cedar and pear perfume hit him before he could grumble out a response. She was wearing a faded denim jacket, no wedding band, her dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a messy braid, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners like she was holding in a laugh. “You’re the guy who yelled about not being able to lift weights while wearing a piece of cloth, right?” she said, dabbing at the wet spot on his shirt one more time before tossing the napkin in a nearby trash can. The bluegrass band behind them was cranked up loud enough to rattle the tent poles, so she had to lean in to be heard, her shoulder pressed firm to his bicep, warm even through two layers of fabric.
Ronan felt his face heat up, the usual defensive retort dying in his throat. He’d spent the last eight years closing himself off from any kind of new connection after his ex-wife left him for a 28 year old real estate agent, had convinced himself every woman around his age was either looking for a paycheck or someone to boss around, and Mara had fit that stereotype perfectly until that second. “Guilty,” he said, grinning, holding up his half-eaten bowl of chili. “In my defense, my gym buddies dared me to make a scene. Bought me a month of free beer after.”
She laughed, loud and throaty, and nodded at the bowl in his hand. “I won the pie contest. Apple crumble. Beat the church ladies who’ve held the title 12 years running.” She tilted her head toward the hay bale seating set up in front of the stage, and Ronan didn’t even think twice before following her. They sat close enough that their knees knocked together every time one of them shifted, neither moving away, as she told him she’d just finalized her divorce six months prior, had taken the public health job to get out of the city where her ex still lived, had been going to minor league games with her dad since she was old enough to hold a hot dog.
Ronan found himself rambling about the 17 year old left-handed pitcher he’d scouted the week before outside Toledo, who threw 94 mph and had a curveball that made batters trip over their own feet, about the F-100 he was restoring that had belonged to his dad, about how he spent half the year living out of a duffel bag in cheap motel rooms eating gas station burritos. She leaned in the whole time, hand resting on his knee when she laughed at his story about the umpire who’d thrown him out of a game last spring for yelling about a bad call, her palm warm even through the thick denim of his jeans. He realized he hadn’t felt this light, this seen, in almost a decade, that all the anger he’d carried around since his divorce, all the stupid resentment he’d aimed at Mara for a policy she didn’t even write, had just been a wall he’d built to keep himself from getting hurt again.
The sun dipped below the treeline, the string lights strung above the seating area flickering to life, the air turning sharp enough that Mara pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders. When they stood up to leave, she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, her fingers cold through the flannel of his shirt, as they walked toward the parking lot. Ronan asked her if she wanted to come back to his shop to see the truck, maybe split a piece of her prize-winning apple crumble he’d seen her tuck into a Tupperware earlier. She nodded, leaning in to tell him she’d brought whipped cream too, her breath warm against his ear, sweet with cinnamon and cider.
He unlocked the door to his F-150, glancing over to where she was already climbing into her Subaru, and smiled when she honked the horn twice to tell him she’d follow him home.
