Milo Rourke, 52, has spent the last 11 years as a low-A minor league scout, logging 40,000 miles a year in a beat-up silver F-150 with a cooler of root beer in the back and a stack of scouting reports tucked under the passenger seat. His biggest flaw, if you ask his older sister who only calls to nag him about holidays, is that he’s built his entire life to avoid attachments. He left suburban Cleveland the day his wife signed the divorce papers 8 years prior, and he hasn’t stayed in one spot for more than 4 days since.
He’s parked at a scuffed Formica bar in Lima, Ohio, 9:17 PM, sipping 10-year bourbon neat, scribbling notes on a crumpled pad about the left-handed pitcher he watched throw 94 mph with a curveball that dropped like a stone earlier that evening. The bar is packed, post-rec league game crowds shouting over the jukebox playing Merle Haggard, the ceiling fan creaking so loud he can barely hear the bartender ask if he wants a refill. The air smells like fried cheese curds and cheap draft beer, the counter sticky under his forearm where he’s propped it up.
She slides onto the stool two down from him, the only empty spot left, and his eyes flick to her before he can stop himself. He guesses she’s around 48, freckles across her nose, sun-bleached blonde hair pulled back in a messy braid, a tattoo of a worn copy of *To Kill a Mockingbird* curling up her left forearm. She’s wearing a white ribbed tank top and frayed denim overalls, the strap slipping off one shoulder, and she fans herself with a crumpled flyer for the local library’s summer book drive. Her knee brushes his when she shifts to flag the bartender, warm denim against his khaki work pants, and she mumbles an apology, her voice low and rough like she’s spent the day yelling over crowds.
He nods, goes back to his notes, but he’s hyper aware of her now. The way she twists a silver ring on her index finger when she’s waiting for her drink. The way she laughs loud at a joke the guy next to her tells, throwing her head back so he can see the faint scar along her jawline. She orders a cherry seltzer with a shot of bourbon, and when she reaches across the bar to grab the bowl of salted peanuts the bartender slides down, her fingers brush his. Her skin is calloused at the fingertips, rough from turning thousands of book pages, and he feels a jolt run up his arm that he hasn’t felt since before the divorce.
He’s half ready to grab his pad and leave, to run back to his motel room like he always does when someone gets too close, but she notices the minor league logo on his scouting pad first. “You here for the Clippers game?” she asks, leaning in a little so he can hear her over the noise. Her shoulder is six inches from his now, he can smell lavender hand lotion and the faint tang of sweat from the 92-degree heat outside.
He’s surprised. Most people in these small towns don’t pay attention to low-A ball, don’t know the difference between a two-seam and four-seam fastball. He nods, tells her about the lefty he was scouting, and she lights up, says she played DIII softball in college, that her 16 year old son pitches for the local high school team. They talk for an hour, she passes him peanuts, their fingers brushing every third or fourth time, and he forgets to check his watch, forgets to make an excuse to leave. She mentions she owns the town’s only independent bookstore, that she’s got a first edition of *The Natural* tucked on a back shelf that he’s been hunting for three years, off and on. “You can come look at it now, if you want,” she says, her eyes locking with his, and he can see the faint smirk on her lips, like she knows exactly what she’s offering.
His brain screams no. It screams that he’s leaving for Indianapolis at 7 AM tomorrow, that attachment only leads to empty houses and signed divorce papers, that he’s better off alone. But he nods anyway, throws a 20 on the bar to cover his drinks, follows her out into the humid July night. The streetlights are amber, fireflies blink in the bushes along the sidewalk, crickets chirp so loud they drown out the distant sound of a car radio. They walk three blocks, their shoulders brushing every few steps, and he doesn’t pull away.
She unlocks the front door of the bookstore, and the smell of old paper and lemon polish hits him immediately, warm and familiar, like the library his mom used to take him to as a kid. She flicks on a single table lamp by the front window, pulls the first edition off the shelf behind the counter, and hands it to him. Their hands wrap around the leather spine at the same time, and she steps closer, her chest pressing lightly to his arm, her head tilted up to look at him. He can feel her breath on his neck, warm and sweet from the cherry seltzer, and he doesn’t overthink it. He leans down, kisses her, soft at first, then harder when she curls her hand around the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the short hair at his nape.
He’s been running for 8 years, running from any feeling that didn’t involve baseball or the open road, convinced that letting anyone close would only end in pain. But right then, standing in a dim bookstore surrounded by thousands of worn books, her body pressed to his, he doesn’t feel the urge to run. He feels at home.
They move to the worn corduroy couch by the front window, the first edition of *The Natural* open on the coffee table between them, and she puts on a scratchy Patsy Cline record on the turntable in the corner. She leans against his chest, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, and he runs his thumb over the tattoo on her forearm, tracing the outline of the book spine. The streetlight filters through the front window, gilding the edges of her braid, and he pulls out his phone, cancels his 7 AM motel reservation for the next night without a second thought.
