Manny Ruiz is 53, spent 27 years coordinating pyrotechnics for airshows up and down the West Coast, retired three years back after his wife Elaine died in a car crash on her way to pick up his birthday cake. His biggest flaw is he’d rather spend 12 hours sanding rust off a 1970s vintage shell casing than make small talk with anyone who lives within a five-mile radius. He only showed up to the town’s annual summer street fair because his 11-year-old next door neighbor begged him to buy a cup of her lemonade, and he’s never been able to say no to that kid’s gap-toothed grin.
He’s leaned against the side of the taco truck, wiping carnitas grease off his calloused fingers, when he hears a laugh he hasn’t heard in 25 years. He looks up. Lila Marlow is standing 18 inches away, holding a paper cup of cherry ices, a strand of auburn hair streaked with silver stuck to the sweat on her forehead. She was Elaine’s college roommate, moved to town six months prior to run the public library, and Manny has deliberately avoided every chance to run into her since she arrived. He’d carried a stupid, useless crush on her back when he and Elaine were first dating, and the guilt of that old spark made him feel like he was cheating on the wife he still missed every single day.
She steps closer, close enough that he can smell the lavender lotion she wears mixed with the old paper scent that clings to everyone who works with books for a living. “I knew that was you,” she says, grinning, “Only guy in a faded airshow hoodie and work boots covered in burn scuffs within a 20-mile radius. I’ve dropped off three boxes of old pyrotechnics history books at your workshop over the past two months. You never answered the door.”
Manny’s throat goes dry. He’d thought those packages were from random salespeople, the ones he always ignores. He fumbles for an apology, but before he can get it out, hot sauce from his taco drips onto the toe of his boot, and she laughs again, reaching out to hand him a crumpled napkin from her pocket. Her fingers brush his when he takes it, the contact light, electric, and he flinches like he’s been burned, even though her skin is soft, cool from holding her iced drink. He doesn’t pull away for two full beats, before he tugs his hand back to wipe hot sauce off his boot, cheeks hot under his sunburn.
They end up sitting on a splintered wooden park bench a few feet away from the crowd, kids running past them with cotton candy stuck to their fingers, the sound of the Ferris wheel creaking in the background. Lila tells him she’s been widowed four years, her husband left her a small inheritance that let her quit her corporate librarian job in Portland and move here, the small town Elaine always talked about being the best place to grow old. Manny finds himself talking more than he has in three years, telling her about the vintage fireworks displays he restores for the state history museum, the way the fuses he has to trim by hand, the way the sparks look when they light up the sky at just the right temperature.
The guilt nags at him the whole time, low in the back of his head, telling him he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be enjoying talking to her, shouldn’t be noticing the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs, the way her knee brushes his every time she leans in to ask a question. He’s halfway to making an excuse to leave, to go home to his dark quiet workshop, when she says, quiet enough only he can hear it, “Elaine called me two weeks before she died. Told me if I ever moved out here, I had to make sure you didn’t turn into a hermit who only talked to old fireworks shells for the rest of your life. She said you were too stubborn to ask for company on your own.”
Manny freezes. He didn’t know that. The knot in his chest loosens a little, the guilt melting into something softer, warmer, that he hasn’t felt since the day Elaine’s car crashed.
The first firework goes off then, red, bursting directly above them, painting the sky bright, and Lila flinches a little, leaning into his side without thinking, her shoulder pressed against his arm, the linen of her dress thin enough that he can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric. He lifts his arm, hesitates for half a second, then wraps it around her waist. She doesn’t pull away. She rests her head on his shoulder, scent of lavender and old paper filling his nose, and he watches the rest of the fireworks display, the one he spent three days helping the fair committee set up, but this time he’s not watching the sparks to make sure nothing goes wrong. He’s watching the way the colors reflect in her eyes.
When the last firework fades, the crowd cheers, and the air smells like gunpowder and grilled corn. Lila pulls back to look up at him, her cheeks pink from the cool evening air, and says, “I’ve got peach pie back at my house. And coffee. You wanna come over?”
Manny nods. He doesn’t even think about making an excuse, about going back to his empty house, his quiet workshop. They stand up, brushing grass off the back of his jeans, and walk down the street towards her place, sidewalk littered with discarded cotton candy sticks and crumpled napkins, their hands brushing every few steps, until he laces his calloused, scarred fingers through hers, her hand small, soft, warm in his. They get to her porch, she reaches into her bag for her keys, and when she finds them, she turns to him, leans up, and kisses him slow, sweet, the taste of cherry ices on her lips. The porch light above them flickers once, then stays bright, illuminating the tiny silver streaks in her hair, the faint scar on his left forearm from a 2018 airshow mishap, the small, unhurried smile on her face when she pulls back.
