Rico Marquez, 58, spent 32 years as an aircraft maintenance supervisor for a regional cargo airline before retiring to his 10-acre strip outside Boise, where he restores vintage prop planes and avoids just about every social invite his older sister shoves in his text thread. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, is that he’s spent seven years convinced any woman who showed him the slightest interest only wanted his land or the rare 1952 Cessna he’d spent four years sanding, rewiring, and repainting himself after his wife, Lena, passed from breast cancer.
Late August sun seared the back of his neck as he trundled through the county fair dirt path, work boots crusted with aviation grease, half-empty lemonade sweating in his left hand. He’d only shown up to display the Cessna for the local small aviation club’s booth, planned to leave before the rodeo started and the crowds got too thick. Then he spotted Maeve O’Connell.
He’d seen her a dozen times over the last five years, usually at the hardware store or the feed shop, always surrounded by 4-H kids trailing after her like baby ducks, always laughing so loud he could hear her across the parking lot. She was 48, ran the county’s 4-H equine program, had just finalized her divorce from Rico’s old coworker Tyler three weeks prior, and every single person in their small community had an opinion about how she should be laying low instead of grinning at the peach pie contest judge like she didn’t have a care in the world.
He tried to veer left toward the Cessna booth, but she caught sight of him first, waved so hard her wide-brimmed straw hat slipped down her forehead. He froze, had no choice but to head over. The scent of warm peach filling and coconut sunscreen hit him before he was within three feet of her, the faint jingle of the ferris wheel carousel music mixing with the chatter of nearby fairgoers.
“Your plane out there is a work of art,” she said, wiping flour off her gingham apron, holding out a paper plate with a slice of pie still steaming at the edges. When their fingers brushed as he took the plate, he felt the rough callus on her thumb from mucking out stalls and braiding horse manes, warm and solid, nothing like the perfectly polished acrylic nails of the women his sister kept trying to set him up with for dinner dates.
He mumbled a thank you, took a bite of pie, so sweet and tart it made his eyes widen. She laughed, leaned in a little so she didn’t have to yell over a group of kids running past, her shoulder brushing his bicep through the thin cotton of his work shirt. “I’ve been begging Tyler to take me up in a small plane for 12 years. Said it was too dangerous, too much of a hassle. I know it’s probably weird, me asking, but… would you ever take me?”
His first instinct was to say no. He knew Tyler still drank at the same dive bar he stopped at every Friday for a beer, knew half the town would side-eye them if they were seen together, knew he was 10 years older, still wore Lena’s old wedding ring on a chain around his neck, still forgot to buy groceries some weeks because he was too focused on rewiring a plane. The logical part of his brain screamed that this was a terrible idea, that it would bring nothing but gossip and hassle and the same heartbreak he’d been running from for seven years.
But then he looked at her, freckles across her nose, sun streaking through her auburn hair where it escaped her hat, eyes bright like she already knew he was going to say yes. He didn’t think about the gossip, didn’t think about Tyler, didn’t think about the way he’d locked his heart down so tight he’d forgotten what it felt like to want something that wasn’t a plane part. “6 a.m. tomorrow,” he said, before he could talk himself out of it. “Sunrise over the Sawtooths. No crowds, smooth air. Best time to fly.”
She beamed, grabbed a crumpled napkin from the booth counter, scribbled her number on it in bright blue pen, tucked it into the breast pocket of his work shirt. Her hand brushed the chain under his shirt, the ring cold under the fabric, and she didn’t flinch, didn’t ask, just gave him a small, soft smile that made his chest feel tight. “Don’t be late,” she said, before a group of 4-H kids swarmed her, dragging her off to look at the prize goats.
He walked back to his truck in a daze, the napkin crinkling in his pocket, the taste of peach pie still on his tongue. He almost called her three times that night, almost talked himself out of it, almost left a voicemail saying he had a mechanical issue and couldn’t make it. But when his alarm went off at 5 a.m. the next day, he was already out of bed, pulling on his work boots, brewing a pot of coffee before he even thought twice.
The tarmac was still dewy when he finished pre-flight checks, the sky pale pink at the edges, no wind, no noise but the distant chirp of crickets. He heard her boots before he saw her, turned around to see her holding a thermos of coffee and a paper bag full of still-warm peach turnovers, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, no makeup, hair pulled back in a messy braid.
She climbed into the passenger seat without hesitation, let him buckle her in, didn’t fidget or ask a hundred questions when he fired up the propeller. When the wheels lifted off the tarmac, she reached across the center console, laced her calloused fingers through his, no big speech, no awkward explanation, just held on like it was the most natural thing in the world. He banked the plane gently to the left so she could see the Sawtooth peaks glowing pink in the sunrise, the blue glint of the alpine lakes below them, the fairgrounds so small they looked like a toy set.
When she laughed, loud and unselfconscious over the low hum of the propeller, he knew he was not going to let anyone talk him out of this.
