Manny Ruiz, 53, has spent the last eight years avoiding every last member of the Carter family like they carry a contagious strain of rotator cuff injury. The minor league baseball scout still carries the chip on his shoulder from his divorce from Lori Carter, who spread lies across their small western Ohio town that he’d cheated on her with a Cincinnati Reds scout mid-road trip, a lie that cost him a shot at a major league scouting gig and three years of awkward side-eyes at the diner where he eats breakfast every Tuesday. He’s stubborn to a fault, holds grudges longer than he holds onto his favorite ball caps, and he’s made a point to turn down every local social invite that could land him in the same room as a Carter, until this year’s county fish fry, where his old buddy dragged him out with the promise of cheap beer and a chance to meet a promising 19-year-old lefty pitcher who was working the fry stand.
The sun’s dipping low over the fairground fence, painting the sky a bruised pink, when he reaches for the last cold Pabst in the galvanized tub at the beer tent at the exact same time as another hand. Their knuckles brush, and he catches a whiff of vanilla extract and fried dough before he looks up, and his jaw tightens when he recognizes her. Clara Carter, Lori’s younger sister by six years, the kid he’d taught to ride a dirt bike when she was 16 and he was 22, fresh off marrying her older sister. She’s got the same gap between her front teeth she had back then, a faint scar snaking across her left wrist from that dirt bike crash, and a smudge of flour on the curve of her jaw, leftover from the bakery she moved back to town to run three months prior, after her mom had a stroke.
He pulls his hand back like he’s touched a hot grill, ready to mumble an excuse and walk away, but she laughs, a low, warm sound that cuts through the noise of the Johnny Cash cover band playing by the picnic tables. “Should’ve known you’d still go for the cheapest beer in the place,” she says, grabbing the can and holding it out to him, her fingers brushing his palm when he takes it. She’s wearing a loose linen sundress the color of wild clover, strappy sandals that show off chipped red nail polish, and she leans in close when she talks, so he can hear her over the crowd, her shoulder brushing his bicep every time a group of kids with melting snow cones runs past.
He’s ready to make a snappy comment about how he didn’t realize any Carters talked to people who aren’t pathological liars, but she beats him to it, mentioning she read his write-up on that Akron lefty in the local sports section last week, that she’s been following his scouting work for years, always thought he was too good to waste his talent on small town gossip. She tells him she knew Lori lied about the cheating, that she walked in on Lori with that real estate agent three months before the divorce, that she tried to tell Lori to come clean, but Lori threatened to tell their mom Clara had dropped out of art school if she said anything.
Manny blinks, the cold beer can sweating in his hand, and for the first time in eight years, the tight knot of anger in his chest loosens a little. He doesn’t realize he’s been smiling until she points it out, teasing him that he’s still got that same lopsided grin he had when he’d sneak her into his and Lori’s apartment to watch old baseball games when Lori was out at book club. They drift over to the edge of the fairground, leaning against a split-rail fence, watching couples slow dance to a cover of Folsom Prison Blues that the band dragged out into a waltz for the older crowd. She leans her shoulder fully against his now, not pulling away when someone from her mom’s church walks past and gives them a curious look, and when she tilts her head up to talk to him, her face is so close he can taste the root beer she’d been drinking on her breath.
She asks him if he still dances as badly as he did at his wedding, when he stepped on Lori’s dress three times during the first dance, and he snorts, setting his empty beer can on the fence post behind him. “Only dance bad for people worth stepping on toes for,” he says, and before he can overthink it, he slips his hand around her waist, pulling her close. Her hand rests on the back of his neck, her fingers brushing the edge of his faded Columbus Clippers cap, and he can feel the heat of her through her dress, the soft press of her hip against his, the way she laughs quietly when he does, in fact, step on her sandal two steps into the song. No one’s staring, most of the crowd is too drunk or too busy herding their kids to the car to pay attention, but they both know the second any of her older relatives spot them, the town gossip mill will be running overtime for weeks.
The song ends a minute later, and she pulls back just far enough to look up at him, that gap between her teeth showing when she grins. She says she’s got a peach pie in her fridge at the bakery, supposed to be for the church bake sale the next day, but she’d rather split it with him than listen to the church ladies complain about her crust being too sweet. He nods, laces his fingers through hers, not bothering to glance around to see who’s watching, his work boots crunching on the gravel lot as he walks with her to her beat up Subaru parked by the gate.
