Roman Voss, 53, has spent the better part of the last decade living out of a dented Ford F-150, logging 40,000 miles a year as a minor league baseball scout for the St. Louis Cardinals organization. His whole gig boils down to spotting raw talent in podunk high school fields and DIII dugouts, reading tells in a pitcher’s windup the way other men read box scores. His biggest flaw? He’s pathologically avoidant of small-town gossip, ever since his wife left him for a real estate agent in 2015 and the entire county spent six months dissecting every detail of their split. He’d skipped the annual Maplewood Fall Festival seven years running, only showing up this October because his niece begged him to stop by her cookie booth, said she’d text his mom if he bailed.
The air smelled like fried dough and burnt wood smoke, fallen maple leaves crunching under the scuffed leather work boots he’d worn to a scout game in West Virginia the night before. He’d grabbed a faded Cardinals hoodie off the floor of his truck on the way in, cap pulled low to avoid making small talk with neighbors he hadn’t spoken to since the divorce. He was halfway to his niece’s booth when he spotted the craft cider tent, and his feet turned before he could think better of it. He hated the sweet, syrupy cider most vendors sold, but he’d been craving the dry, unfiltered stuff no one else in town seemed to like.
The woman running the tent leaned against the folding table when he walked up, dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, flannel shirt unbuttoned at the collar, bubble gum popping as she flipped through a paperback. Elara Marlow, 39, his ex-wife’s first cousin. He hadn’t seen her in three years, not since he’d run into her at the grocery store the last time he was in town for the off-season. She looked up, and a slow smirk spread across her face, like she’d been expecting him. She didn’t say anything, just grabbed a mason jar, filled it from the tap in the back labeled “STAFF ONLY – DRY”, and slid it across the table to him. Their fingers brushed when he took it, her skin cold from handling the iced kegs, his calloused from years of gripping baseball bats and steering wheels. The contact sent a jolt up his arm he hadn’t felt in years. He smelled pine soap and cinnamon lip gloss on her, and he realized he’d been holding his breath.
He paid, mumbled a thanks, and retreated to a hay bale at the edge of the festival grounds, far enough away from the crowd that no one would stop to chat. Ten minutes later, Elara dropped down next to him, close enough that her knee pressed against his jeans when she leaned back. She was still chewing that same watermelon bubble gum she’d loved when she was 16, crashing his wedding reception and stealing three slices of his groom’s cake. She teased him about still wearing the same hoodie he’d had on their honeymoon, the one with the coffee stain on the sleeve he’d never been able to get out. He teased her about still hiding the good cider from everyone else, like she was hoarding it for a secret. The conversation was easy, lighter than any he’d had in months, but there was a hum under it, a tension he couldn’t ignore. He kept glancing at the freckle next to her left eye, the silver chain peeking out from under her flannel. He’d gotten her that chain for her high school graduation, 21 years prior, a tiny baseball charm on the end because she’d played shortstop in high school. He’d always assumed she’d thrown it away after the divorce.
The first firework went off right as the sun dipped below the treeline, painting the sky pink and orange. The crowd screamed and surged toward the field, and Elara grabbed his wrist, pulling him up and toward the empty cider tent before he could protest. “Crowd’s a nightmare,” she said, pulling the tent flap shut behind them. Colored light seeped through the canvas, painting her face in bursts of red and blue, the distant booms of the fireworks muffled by the fabric. She was standing so close he could feel her breath on his jaw, and for a second he thought about pulling away, about the gossip that would spread if anyone found them here, about how messy it would be to get involved with his ex-wife’s cousin. Then she leaned in and kissed him, and every thought in his head went quiet.
She tasted like bubble gum and hard cider, her hand cold on the back of his neck, his free hand coming up to rest on her waist, the flannel soft under his fingers. He’d thought about this kiss for seven years, ever since she’d showed up to his divorce party, drunk on wine, and told him his ex was an idiot for leaving him. He’d pushed her away then, too scared of what people would say, too wrapped up in his own embarrassment to admit he wanted her too. This time he didn’t pull away.
When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his, laughing quiet. “I’ve been saving that dry cider for you every October for six years,” she said, and he felt stupid for not noticing, for wasting so much time being scared of what other people thought. They agreed to take it slow, no rush to tell anyone, no pressure to make it anything more than what it was.
They walked back to his truck after the festival ended, the ground cold under their boots, the streetlights casting golden halos over the empty sidewalks. She tucked her hand into the pocket of his hoodie, lacing her fingers through his, and he held his half-empty cider cup in his other hand, the cool glass pressing against his palm. For the first time in eight years, he wasn’t dreading the long, quiet off-season ahead.
