Rico Marquez, 53, has spent the last eight years living out of a dented Ford F-150, crisscrossing the Carolinas as a minor league scout, tracking 19-year-old pitchers with 95-mile-per-hour fastballs and egos twice that size. He’s got a scar slashing across his left eyebrow from a line drive last spring, and a bad habit of shutting down any setup attempt his older sister makes, convinced dating after 50 is just a cycle of awkward small talk and unmet expectations, leftover resentment from his ex-wife walking out with a realtor half his age still sitting heavy in his chest.
He’d only agreed to come to the town’s Fourth of July picnic because his sister threatened to stop bringing him her famous pecan pies when he passed through town, and he’d hidden by the beer tent for the first hour, nursing a warm lager, ignoring her waving him over to the table of church friends. The air smelled like charred bratwurst, cut grass, and faint sulfur of firecrackers kids set off before cops made them stop, humidity thick enough to sip, sweat beading at the back of his neck under his faded Durham Bulls cap.
He was just about to sneak out to his truck when a woman carrying a wooden crate of squirming kittens tripped over a cooler at his feet, and he reached out automatically to catch her elbow, his calloused hand wrapping around warm, sun-kissed skin for two full seconds before he let go. She steadied herself, laughing, and when she looked up he recognized her immediately: Lila, his ex-wife’s first cousin, the one who’d always sat at the far end of the Thanksgiving table teasing him about his terrible grilling skills, who’d moved to Florida right after his split. She was 48 now, silver streaks running through dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, a grass stain on the knee of her worn work jeans, a silver hoop catching the sun so it glinted right in his eye. She smelled like coconut sunscreen and the orange hard candy she always sucked on, holding eye contact longer than was strictly polite, one corner of her mouth tugging up in that half smile he’d thought about more times than he’d ever admit.
He felt a hot flash of guilt first, sharp and stupid, because she was still technically family by old marriage, his ex would throw a fit if she found out they even spoke, and he’d spent eight years telling himself he didn’t want to stir up old drama. But then she shifted the crate, a calico kitten crawling over the edge, and they both leaned down to catch it, their shoulders bumping, her hand brushing his when they both grabbed for its scruff, and the guilt vanished, replaced by a fluttery, jittery buzz he hadn’t felt since he was a teen sneaking into drive-in movies.
They knelt in scratchy grass for ten minutes, passing kittens back and forth, her saying she moved back three months prior to run the county animal control department, him telling her about the 20-year-old shortstop he’d just signed out of an Asheville community college, their hands brushing every so often when they reached for the same kitten, her knee pressing against his when they leaned in to hear the tiny orange one purr. A kid’s balloon popped ten feet away, they both jumped laughing, and she leaned in so close he could feel her breath on his ear: “I’ve got a cooler of cold spiked seltzer back at my cabin, ten minutes up the road. Got three foster dogs too, if you’re into that. No pressure.”
He hesitated for half a second, thinking about the last time he’d spoken to his ex, when she’d called yelling about forgotten lake house divorce paperwork, thinking about how he’d spent eight years playing it safe, driving from game to game, eating diner burgers alone, never letting anyone get close enough to mess up his quiet, boring routine. Then he looked up at her, her thumb brushing a fleck of grass off his jeans, and he nodded.
He followed her pickup up the winding dirt road to her cabin, the sky turning pink and purple as the sun set, distant early fireworks popping through the trees. She pulled into the gravel driveway, turned off her truck, hopped out, and looked at him over her shoulder, winking, holding the screen door open. He turned off his truck, grabbed his hat off the passenger seat, and stepped out to follow her inside.
