Javi Mendez, 59, retired air show stunt pilot turned vintage aircraft parts shop owner, perches on his usual scuffed bar stool at The Rusty Prop, nursing a neat scotch. The floor sticks a little when he shifts his weight, Johnny Cash rumbles low from the beat-up jukebox, and the air smells like fried pickles and hickory smoke from the BBQ pit out back, thick enough to taste. Grease is crusted under his fingernails from rebuilding a carburetor that afternoon, a thin silvery scar slices across his left cheek from a 2015 crash that made him swear off unnecessary risks—including any kind of casual connection, after his wife left six months later. He’d turned down half a dozen setups from friends in the last three years, convinced his rigid 6 a.m. wrenching schedule and habit of talking to planes more than people made him too much work for anyone to bother with.
She slides onto the stool two spots down, wearing faded denim overalls, scuffed work boots caked with red Arizona dirt, a smudge of aircraft grease high on her left jaw. Her braid has a few strands of silver at the temples, and she orders a peach iced tea with extra ice. She’s Ron’s niece, Lila, he remembers; Ron mentioned she’s a wildlife biologist passing through for the Fourth of July air show, tagging local hawks when she wasn’t geeking out over the vintage planes on display. She reaches for the paper napkin dispenser the same time Javi does, their knuckles brushing. Hers are cold from carrying a frozen water bottle around the show all day, his rough with decades of calluses. He yanks his hand back like he touched a live wire, and she huffs a soft, warm laugh, no mockery in it. “Sorry. Forgot how jumpy you pilots are.”
He blinks, surprised she knows who he is, and she nods at the embroidered stunt team patch on his worn A-2 jacket. “Ron pointed you out earlier. Said you used to pull loops so tight you’d make air traffic controllers pass out.” He snorts, shifts a little closer, the space between their stools shrinking by an inch. “Ron exaggerates. Only made one controller pass out, and he had a hangover.”
They talk for an hour, first about the P-51 replica he has on display, then about her work tracking hawk migration patterns across the Rockies, then about the time he landed a dead-engine plane in an Iowa cornfield and convinced the farmer he was just delivering a surprise air show for his kid’s birthday. Every time one of them shifts, their knees brush under the bar, warm through the denim of their jeans. He can smell lavender soap mixed with jet fuel on her, a combination that shouldn’t work but makes the back of his neck feel hot, a sensation he hasn’t felt since his wife first asked him to teach her to fly 15 years prior.
He nods at the grease smudge on her jaw, and she leans in, tilting her face toward him like she’s asking him to get a better look. “Got it helping a 12-year-old fix his dad’s Cessna this morning. Worth it, he got it flying right before the show started.” She lifts a hand, brushes a streak of dirt off his own cheek that he didn’t know was there, her fingers soft against his skin, lingering for half a second before she pulls away. He tenses, his first instinct to lean back, to remind himself she’s leaving in the morning, that getting attached to someone passing through is a waste of time, that he’s better off alone in his hangar with his tools and his old radio. But she’s still looking at him, her hazel eyes flecked with gold in the neon bar light, and he can’t make himself look away.
The bartender yells that the fireworks are starting, and the whole bar piles out into the gravel parking lot, the air already thick with the sharp, sulfuric smell of gunpowder. They stand shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the crowd, their arms brushing every time one of them shifts. A particularly loud firework booms overhead, bright crimson, painting the whole lot red, and she leans into him a little, her shoulder pressed firm against his bicep. He doesn’t move away. He turns his head to say something about the show, and she’s already looking up at him, her mouth slightly parted, the next blue burst turning her skin pale blue. He doesn’t overthink it, doesn’t run through the list of reasons he shouldn’t, just leans down, kisses her.
She kisses back immediately, tastes like peach iced tea and mint gum, one hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, her thumb brushing the edge of his scar. The fireworks boom overhead, the crowd cheers in the distance, but he can’t hear any of it, just the thud of his own pulse in his ears. When they pull apart, they don’t say anything for a minute, just look at each other, multicolored light dancing across their faces. “I was supposed to drive back to Montana tomorrow,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear. “But I took an extra week off. Ron mentioned you give flying lessons.” He grins, a real one, the kind he hasn’t pulled out in years. “I got a P-51 in my hangar that hasn’t had a co-pilot in way too long.”
The fireworks end a few minutes later, the crowd dispersing, laughing and yelling as they head back to their cars. He reaches for her hand as they walk across the gravel to his old Ford pickup, his calloused fingers wrapping around hers, her palm warm against his. He doesn’t worry about what happens after that week, doesn’t overanalyze the risk, just squeezes her hand a little tighter when she leans her shoulder against his arm as they walk.
