Manny Ruiz, 52, spent 19 years as a professional airshow stunt pilot before a minor 2022 heart episode sidelined him, forced him to sell his red-and-white custom biplane and swap stunt runs for restoring vintage propeller engines out of his two-car suburban Dayton garage. He’s stubborn to a fault, hates asking for help even when his left shoulder aches after three hours hunched over a carburetor, still carries a faded photo of his first stunt win in the pocket of his oil-stained work jeans. He dragged a folding table and stack of custom engraved spark plugs to the annual neighborhood street fair that Saturday, manning a fundraiser for the local small business coalition fighting the new city council’s push to zone home repair shops like his out of the area. The air hung thick and humid, 82 degrees with no breeze, the smell of fried Oreos and vintage car show exhaust clinging to every surface.
He was wiping sweat off the back of his neck with a crumpled paper towel when Lila Hale walked up. She was the 48-year-old wife of the conservative councilman leading the zoning charge, the same man who’d banged on Manny’s front door two months prior yelling about engine test noise at 2 p.m. on a Sunday. Manny had only spoken to her twice before, both times in passing: once when she brought over a welcome basket after the Hales moved in down the block, once when she apologized for her husband’s outburst while he carried grocery bags up their driveway. She wasn’t wearing the frumpy floral dresses he’d always seen her in, she had on cutoff denim shorts and a faded Tom Petty tank top, dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, sunburn high on her cheekbones.
She leaned against the edge of his table, close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and faint vanilla lip gloss over the fried food stench, her hip brushing the edge of his elbow where he rested his weight on the tabletop. He tried not to stare at the freckles across her shoulders, the faint scar on her left wrist from what looked like an old bike accident. She said she’d been watching him work in his garage through her kitchen window for weeks, admired how he could take a pile of rusted metal and turn it back into something that ran. “Hank can’t even hang a shelf straight,” she said, laughing soft, the sound cutting through the twang of the bluegrass band playing at the end of the block. She reached across the table to pick up one of the engraved spark plugs, her hand brushing his where it rested on the wood, and he felt the rough callus on her index finger from the rose bushes she tended in her front yard. She didn’t pull away for three full seconds, dark eyes holding his, no trace of the polite, reserved neighbor he’d known before.
Manny’s throat went dry. He knew better than to engage. Hank Hale had made it clear he wanted Manny’s shop shut down by the end of the year, had already pushed through a first reading of the zoning ordinance that would fine him $500 a day for running his business out of his garage. Being seen alone with the man’s wife would be a death sentence, give Hank all the ammo he needed to paint Manny as a troublemaker, turn the whole neighborhood against him. But he couldn’t look away from her, couldn’t shake the jolt that ran up his arm when their hands touched, the same sharp, thrilling buzz he used to get right before he pulled a loop-de-loop 3,000 feet above the ground. She said she’d seen his stunt show at the Dayton Airshow five years prior, remembered the trick where he flew his biplane under the Main Street pedestrian bridge, the crowd screaming so loud you could hear it a mile away. No one had brought that up in months, not since he’d sold the plane, not since his doctor told him he could never pull high G-forces again.
“Hank’s at a campaign fundraiser across town for the next two hours,” she said, running a finger along the edge of the spark plug in her hand, her voice low enough only he could hear. “You mentioned on the neighborhood group you’re restoring a 1942 Pratt & Whitney radial engine. I’d love to see it.” She tilted her head, a faint, teasing smile playing on her lips, and he knew exactly what she was asking, what it would mean if he said yes. He hesitated for half a second, thinking about the fines, the drama, the way Hank would lose his mind if he found out. Then he thought about the last time he’d felt this alive, this seen, and he pushed off the table, tucking his work keys into his jeans pocket.
They walked the three blocks back to his house slow, keeping a polite three foot distance between them on the sidewalk, waving at a group of kids running past with snow cones, making idle small talk about the fair. The second they turned into his driveway, out of view of the main street, she shifted closer, her shoulder brushing his. He unlocked the side door to the garage, flipped on the overhead light, and she stepped inside first, turning to face him as the door clicked shut behind them, the faint roar of the fair fading to a low hum through the cinder block walls.
