Manny Ruiz, 59, retired airshow prop mechanic, had avoided his neighborhood’s 4th of July cookouts for 12 straight years. The last one he’d attended had ended with his ex-wife screaming at him in the driveway for “ignoring her friends” to talk shop with a fellow plane nerd, and he’d sworn off the whole messy, overcrowded tradition entirely. The only reason he’d showed up this year was Clara Bennett, the new 56-year-old HOA president who’d stopped by his garage three weeks prior begging him to fix her bent bird feeder pole, and had brought him a slice of homemade key lime pie as payment. He’d told himself he’d stay 20 minutes max, grab a beer, say hi, and bolt back to his half-restored 1943 T-6 prop in the garage.
He stood by the charcoal grill, cold IPA sweating through the paper coozie in his left hand, and fought the urge to slip out before anyone noticed he was there. The air smelled like hickory smoke and cut St. Augustine grass, a cheap portable speaker blared old Alan Jackson tracks from the foldable table by the curb, and half the neighborhood’s kids were chasing a fluffy golden retriever back and forth across the lawn, screaming so loud his ears rang a little. He was just reaching for his keys in his jeans pocket when Clara appeared at his side, so close he could feel the heat of her sun-warmed arm through his thin work shirt.
She held out a paper plate heaped with smoked brisket and pickled okra, a smudge of charcoal dust streaked across her left cheek, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid streaked with silver. “Was wondering if you’d bailed on me,” she said, grinning, and when he reached out to take the plate their fingers brushed. He felt the rough callus on her index finger, the same one she’d gotten from planting hydrangeas along the front of her house, and he froze for half a second before he grabbed the plate. She didn’t pull away immediately, held eye contact a full beat longer than casual, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners like she knew exactly how flustered he was.
He took a bite of the brisket, salty and smoky and perfect, and mumbled that he’d almost left. She laughed, a low warm sound, and leaned in so he could hear her over the racket of the kids, her shoulder pressing firmly into his bicep as she pointed at the retriever, who’d just stolen a hot dog bun off a kid’s plate. “That’s my idiot dog, Hank,” she said, her tiny silver hoop earring catching the glow of the grill as she spoke. “Chewed through three of my garden hoses last month. I was gonna ask you if you knew how to fix a sprinkler head he tore up, too.” He snorted, told her he could fix damn near anything with a wrench and a roll of duct tape, and she leaned in closer, her breath smelling like peach iced tea, when he started talking about the T-6 prop he was restoring for a friend up in Ocala.
He’d spent 12 years telling himself he didn’t want anyone new in his space, that dating was more trouble than it was worth, that anyone tied to neighborhood drama would just end up like his ex, nagging him to stop working on his planes and come to stupid potlucks. But Clara didn’t nag. She asked questions about the difference between fixed-pitch and variable-pitch props, she laughed at his joke about the old HOA board fining him $75 for leaving a propeller on his front lawn, she didn’t even mention his ex when a neighbor walked by and gave them a weird look. When the first firework went off overhead, painting the sky bright red, she shivered a little, the temperature having dropped 15 degrees once the sun went down.
He hesitated for two full seconds, then shrugged off his worn denim work jacket, the one with the faded 2014 Daytona Airshow logo stitched on the breast pocket, and draped it over her shoulders. She looked up at him, the blue and purple bursts of the fireworks reflecting in her eyes, and she reached up to brush a stray lock of graying hair off his forehead, her wrist grazing his cheek as she did. “I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask you out for three weeks,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear. “I was scared you’d tell me to go to hell.” He told her he’d almost done that when she first knocked on his door about the bird feeder, but he was glad he hadn’t.
By the time the last firework fizzled out, the rest of the neighborhood was herding kids into minivans and folding up folding chairs, and they were still standing side by side, his jacket still on her shoulders. They walked the two houses down to his place in silence, the distant pop of other fireworks echoing a few blocks over, Hank trotting along behind them, carrying a half-chewed stick in his mouth. She stopped on his front porch, leaning against the railing, and nodded at the garage window where the half-restored T-6 prop was visible under a LED work light. “You gonna show me that prop you were talking about, or what?” she said, grinning. He unlocked the front door, held it open, and she stepped inside, Hank trotting right after her, before he could even answer.
