Javi Mendez, 57, minor league baseball scout for the Appalachian League, had only agreed to show up to the East Knoxville chili cookoff to pay off a bet with his 22-year-old niece. He’d lost three straight games of cornhole over Christmas, so the deal was he’d stay for 20 minutes, eat her chili, and pretend he didn’t think her “extreme habanero recipe” was a war crime against beans. He’d been avoiding all neighborhood events for 12 years, ever since his divorce, convinced every face there would remind him of the life he’d blown up by choosing road trips and scouting reports over anniversary dinners and mortgage payments. It was a stupid grudge, he knew, but stubbornness was the only personality trait he’d managed to hold onto through all the years of cheap motel rooms and lukewarm gas station coffee.
He was halfway to his beat-up Ford F-150, notebook full of pitcher stat sheets tucked under his arm, half-eaten bowl of chili sloshing in his other hand, when he hit something soft and warm around shoulder height. Cedar and vanilla perfume hit his nose first, then the sound of a low, rough laugh he hadn’t heard in over a decade. Maeve Carter, 47, owner of the downtown vintage linen shop, and his ex-wife’s former college roommate, was wiping a streak of bean chili off her forest green flannel shirt, grinning like she’d been waiting to run into him.
He fumbled for a stack of paper napkins sticking out of a nearby picnic table, reaching to dab at the spot on her forearm before he thought better of it. His calloused thumb brushed the soft skin just under her rolled cuff, where a tiny sunflower tattoo peeked out, faded from years of sun. She didn’t pull away. He’d always liked Maeve, back when he was married. They’d sat on his old back porch for hours once, when his ex was out of town, talking about minor league games and the way the mountains turned purple at dusk, and he’d left that conversation feeling like he’d cheated, even though they hadn’t so much as touched hands. He’d avoided her ever since, too guilty to look her in the eye, too stupid to admit he’d thought about that conversation at least once a month for 14 years.
They stood so close their shoulders brushed every time a group of kids ran past, chasing a golden retriever with a corn cob in its mouth. The portable speaker by the grill crackled through an old Alan Jackson track, and the air smelled like charcoal and burnt marshmallows. She asked him about scouting, tilting her head like she actually cared what he had to say, not just making polite small talk. Most people thought his job was just drinking beer and watching baseball games, no real work involved, but she asked about the kids he’d signed, the ones that made it to the majors, the ones that didn’t. He found himself talking longer than he meant to, leaning in a little when she laughed, catching the faint cinnamon of the churro she’d been eating on her breath. When she tucked a strand of auburn hair streaked with silver behind her ear, her hand brushed his bicep, accidental at first, then she held it there for a beat too long, her eyes dark and steady on his.
The guilt hit him sharp, for a second. His ex was remarried, had two kids down in Florida, hadn’t spoken to him in eight years. He had nothing to feel guilty for, but old habits died hard. He’d spent 12 years punishing himself for his failed marriage, closing himself off from anything that felt like it could lead to something real, convinced he didn’t deserve it. But Maeve was still looking at him, smiling like she knew exactly what was going through his head, and he couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that.
The cookoff winners were announced over the speaker, and his niece screamed when they called her name for third place. She ran over, throwing her arms around Javi’s waist, then turned to Maeve, grinning. “Uncle Javi’s coming to my rec league softball game next week. You should come. I’ve heard you used to play in high school.” Javi froze, his mouth half open, ready to make an excuse about scouting trips he didn’t have planned. Maeve laughed, nodding before he could say anything. “I’d love to. If he’s okay with it.”
He didn’t even think about it. “Yeah. That sounds good.” He pulled his scouting notebook out from under his arm, flipping to a blank page, and handed it to her, along with the pen he kept tucked behind his ear. She scribbled her number down, then tore the corner of the page off, tucking it into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. Her fingers lingered on his chest for half a second, warm through the thin fabric. “I’ve been waiting 14 years for you to ask me something,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear. “Even if your niece did the heavy lifting.”
He walked her to her beat-up Subaru, the sun dipping low over the hills, painting the sky pink and tangerine. She opened the driver’s side door, leaning in to kiss his cheek, soft and warm, the faint stick of her cherry lip gloss left on his skin when she pulled away. She waved as she drove off, and he stood there for a minute, touching the spot on his cheek, then pulling the scrap of paper out of his pocket, running his thumb over her messy, looping handwriting. He turned to walk back to his truck, already mentally rearranging his scouting schedule for the next week, making sure he had time to stop and buy a new hat before the game.
