Manny Ruiz, 53, a minor league baseball scout who’s logged 170,000 miles on his beat-up Ford F-150 in the last three years, had to be dragged to his 35th high school reunion by his old linebacker roommate. He’d skipped every prior gathering for a reason: he’d bailed on his senior prom date 10 minutes before he was supposed to pick her up, when his first ever scout gig offer landed in his voicemail. He’d never called to apologize. He’d never even followed up to see if she’d ended up going at all.
The reunion was held in the back room of the same bowling alley bar they’d snuck into as 17 year olds, the air thick with fried cheese curd grease, stale beer, and the faint whine of bowling balls rolling down lanes on the other side of the cinder block wall. Manny leaned against the scuffed Formica bar, half-drunk Pabst in one hand, his tattered scout notebook peeking out the pocket of his frayed navy flannel, and scanned the room for an exit when his gaze locked on her.
Lena Marquez. Silver streaks threaded through her dark wavy hair, cut just above her shoulders, and she was wearing a faded denim jacket with a hand-painted sunflower on the left breast, laughing so hard at something a former cheerleader said that her eyes crinkled shut and she tipped her glass of bourbon a little too far, spilling a drop on her jeans. Manny’s throat went dry. He’d seen her three weeks prior, standing behind the fence at a high school playoff game, cheering so loud for the left-handed pitcher he was there to scout that her voice was hoarse by the seventh inning. He’d had no idea that was her.
She spotted him 10 seconds later. Her smile faded for half a beat, then turned into a sharp, teasing smirk, and she walked across the room without saying goodbye to her friend, stopping so close to him that he could smell vanilla lotion and bourbon on her, the fabric of her jacket brushing his forearm when she leaned against the bar next to him. “I thought I’d never see you show your face around this town again,” she said, flagging the bartender for another drink, her elbow bumping his intentionally when she set her empty glass down.
Manny stammered out an apology before she could even bring up prom, and she laughed, loud and warm, and told him she’d waited 72 minutes on her front porch in a puffy pink taffeta dress before her cousin showed up to take her, that she’d forgiven him before she even graduated, that she’d followed his career off and on for years, knew he’d signed three guys who’d made it to the majors. When she told him the pitcher he’d been scouting for the last six months was her stepson, Manny’s stomach dropped. He’d spent weeks drafting the contract offer for Javi, was supposed to drop it off at his house Tuesday. He felt like he was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross, even just talking to her, the old guilt tangled up with a sharp, warm desire he hadn’t felt in years, not since his divorce four years prior.
They talked for an hour, about his cross-country road trips for games, about the native plant nursery she’d run for 18 years, about Javi, who she’d raised since he was 8, who’d already told her he was signing with Manny’s team no matter what other offers he got. When they both reached for the salted peanut bowl on the bar at the same time, his calloused hand, rough from years of holding radar guns and hauling gear, covered hers, which was calloused too, from digging in dirt and pruning bushes. Neither of them pulled away for three full seconds, and Manny could feel the heat rising up his neck, the room fading out so all he could hear was her breathing, the distant clink of beer glasses, a 1992 Alan Jackson track playing low on the jukebox.
“Javi’s 19,” she said, soft enough no one else could hear, leaning in so her breath brushed the shell of his ear. “He doesn’t care who I date. The team doesn’t get a say in who you talk to off the clock. I’ve spent 30 years wondering what would’ve happened if you’d knocked on my door that night. You gonna make me wait another 30?”
Manny didn’t hesitate. He tossed back the last of his beer, tucked his scout notebook into his jacket pocket, and asked her if she wanted to drive out to the 24-hour pie diner off the highway, the one they’d snuck to after football games, where they still made peach pie with crust so flaky it crumbled all over your lap. She nodded, lacing her fingers through his, her hand warm and solid in his, and didn’t let go when they walked past a table of their old classmates who turned to stare.
He held the door open for her when they stepped out into the cool October night, the smell of fallen oak leaves hanging thick in the air, and he noticed she was wearing the same tiny silver hoop earrings she’d worn to their first date at the homecoming dance their junior year. She leaned up to kiss him quick on the cheek before she climbed into the passenger seat of his truck.