Manny Ruiz, 59, retired air show pyrotechnician, had been dragged to the fire department cookout against his better judgment. His neighbor had banged on his door at 4 p.m., holding a six pack of cheap lager, saying if Manny spent one more Saturday cooped up in his workshop burning his fingertips on fuse wire he was gonna turn into a reclusive old hermit before he hit 60. Manny had grumbled, grabbed his frayed denim work shirt with the faded Air Show Pyrotechnics patch sewn over the chest, and followed him, Gus the basset hound snuffling at his heels before he shooed him back inside.
The cookout was the usual small town chaos. Kids screamed chasing each other with water guns, the fire chief yelled over a crackling microphone about raffle tickets, the smell of charred burgers and burnt hot dogs hung thick enough to taste. Manny leaned against a splintered picnic table at the edge of the crowd, sipping lukewarm beer, doing his best to avoid making eye contact with anyone who might try to drag him into a conversation about his ex-wife or the 2017 air show mishap that left a thin, silvery scar snaking up his left forearm.
He was just debating slipping out early when he turned to toss his empty beer can in the trash and collided with someone hard enough to send a stack of paperbacks spilling across the grass at his feet. He cursed under his breath, bending down to grab them, and his hand brushed against another, warm and calloused at the fingertips, when they both reached for the same dog-eared copy of a 1990s western romance. His knuckle grazed the thick silver moon ring on her index finger, and he glanced up, meeting warm hazel eyes framed by streaks of gray in her dark wavy hair. She smelled like coconut sunscreen and old paper, the kind of scent that stuck to your clothes after you spent an hour browsing a used bookstore.
“Sorry about that,” he said, straightening up and handing her the stack. She smirked, nodding at the patch on his shirt. “Manny Ruiz, right? I saw your last air show, the one over at the county airport before you retired. That finale with the red and gold bursts that looked like sunset over the cornfields? I still have a photo of it taped to my fridge.”
Manny’s jaw tightened. He hated talking about the old shows, hated the way people always asked about the scar, about why he’d retired early. But she didn’t ask any of that. She just said her name was Clara, 56, the new part-time county librarian, she’d moved to town six months prior after her husband died, and she was running the book sale table for the fundraiser.
He found himself talking to her for 20 minutes straight, leaning against the picnic table, their shoulders only a few inches apart, her knee brushing his every time someone squeezed past them through the crowd. He told her about the firework stand he ran on the edge of town, she told him about the after-school tutoring program she ran for foster kids, how she stopped by his stand every June to buy sparklers for the end of the year party. He’d never noticed her before, he realized, because he was always so determined to look right through anyone who wasn’t a customer.
The fire chief’s voice blared over the speaker then, announcing the final raffle prize: a private sunset hot air balloon ride donated by the company out of Ashland. He called Manny’s ticket number, and Manny froze. He hated heights, had since he was a kid, had never told anyone that, not even his ex-wife. Clara laughed, soft and warm, nudging his elbow with hers. “You look like you just saw a ghost. You scared of heights, or you just don’t wanna go alone?”
He was too proud to admit the first part, so he shrugged. “Don’t got anyone to go with, s’all.”
“Then I’ll come,” she said, before he could overthink it. “I’ve always wanted to go up in one of those things.”
The balloon ride was slower than he expected. They drifted 500 feet above the cornfields, the air cool against his cheeks, the distant sound of a tractor hummed up from below. They sat shoulder to shoulder on the padded bench, his thigh pressed firm against hers when the balloon shifted with the wind, and he didn’t move away. She pointed out his firework stand, tiny and red below them, and he told her about the new mini display he was tinkering with for the fall harvest festival, the one that would burst in little orange and white puffs that looked like pumpkins. He told her about the 2017 mishap, how a fuse had lit too early, how he’d pushed a teen volunteer out of the way before it went off, how that was the day he decided he was done with big shows. She didn’t pity him, didn’t tell him he was brave, just laced her fingers through his for a second, calloused fingertips brushing the scar on his forearm, and said that sounded like the kind of thing only a good guy would do.
They landed as the last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon, the sky streaked pink and orange, the same shades as his old finale display. He walked her to her beat up blue Subaru parked at the edge of the field, and when she leaned in to hug him goodbye, he tilted his chin down and kissed her, slow and soft, no rush. She tasted like the pink lemonade they’d drank on the balloon and the cherry lollipop she’d been sucking on during the ride, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, her thumb brushing the stubble along his jaw.
When they pulled apart, she laughed, brushing a piece of corn silk that had stuck to the collar of his flannel shirt behind his ear. He asked her if she wanted to come over next Saturday, test out the mini pumpkin fireworks he was working on, maybe grill some burgers, meet Gus. She said yes, scribbled her cell number on the back of a torn library receipt, and slipped it into the pocket of his work shirt. He stood there in the dark, watching her taillights fade down the dirt road, his palm pressed to the crumpled receipt in his pocket, the faint scent of coconut sunscreen still clinging to the cuff of his shirt.