Manny Cervantes, 53, spent 22 years as an air show stunt pilot before a bird strike shattered his left propeller mid-loop and left him with a metal plate in his forearm and a six-figure settlement he’s barely touched. His biggest flaw? He’s spent the eight years since his divorce treating any hint of romantic interest like a smoke signal from a crashed plane, assuming everyone’s only after his cash or the story of his career-ending crash. He’d shown up to the county fire department’s annual chili cookoff only because his next-door neighbor begged him to bring his homemade pickled jalapeños, and he’d already planned to leave after 45 minutes, until she walked up.
He didn’t recognize her at first, all sun-streaked auburn hair and a linen sundress that hit mid-thigh, until she laughed and said his name, loud enough to cut over the Toby Keith track blaring from the speakers by the fry stand. It was Mia Carter, his ex-wife’s niece, the same kid who’d snuck sips of his beer at family barbecues when she was 17 and begged him to teach her to do backflips off the dock at his old lake house. She was 38 now, in town for three months as a travel nurse, covering the local clinic’s staffing shortage that had only gotten worse after the late summer RSV surge wiped out half the full-time staff.
She stepped close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and peppermint lip balm, and when she reached across him to grab a stack of napkins from the bed of his truck, her bare arm brushed his, warm and soft through the thin cotton of his faded work shirt. He tensed up first, half-embarrassed by the jolt that ran up his spine, half-horrified that he was even noticing how the late afternoon sun gilded the freckles across her nose. This was wrong. He’d changed her flat tire when she was in college, for Christ’s sake. His ex would scream loud enough to rattle the windows at the fire station if she knew he was even standing this close.
Mia didn’t seem to notice his internal spiral. She hopped up on the tailgate next to him, her bare calf brushing the scuffed leather of his work boot as she swung her legs, and took a bite of his chili, making a dramatic face when the heat hit her tongue. She told him she’d driven past his hangar on the way to the coast the week before, had seen the small two-seater Cessna he kept parked out front, and asked if he still took it up for fun. He shrugged, said he hadn’t bothered in two years, no point in flying if you’ve got no one to fly with. She teased him, called him a hermit, dared him to take her up that night, when the sunset over the Gulf was supposed to be the best it had been all month.
He said no at first, made up an excuse about needing to adjust the carburetor on a client’s propeller first, but she kept looking at him, eyes bright, head tilted like she knew he was lying, and he caved before he could talk himself out of it. They drove out to the hangar 20 minutes later, the windows down, the smell of salt and pine blowing through the truck, and he ran through the pre-flight checks on automatic, his hands still shaking a little every time he thought about the way she’d smiled when he said yes.
The air was warm and smooth when they climbed, the sky bleeding pink and tangerine across the horizon, and when Mia leaned over the center console to point out a pod of dolphins jumping in the Gulf below, her hand brushed his thigh, light and intentional, and he turned to look at her. She was already looking at him, no trace of the awkward teen he’d known left on her face, and she kissed him, slow, tasting like cherry limeade and the sour watermelon candy she’d snuck from the cookoff stand on the way out. He kissed her back, no hesitation this time, all that stupid, misplaced guilt melting away the second her hand curled around the back of his neck, the metal plate in his forearm thrumming like it was happy for the first time in years.
They landed when the last of the sun had dipped below the water, the runway lit up with small solar lights he’d installed himself, and they walked into the small studio apartment he kept attached to the back of the hangar, Mia dropping her canvas travel nurse bag by the front door. He reached behind the counter to flip on the string lights he’d strung above the sink, and she leaned against the fridge, smiling, and asked if he still kept the same brand of cold lager he used to serve at those old lake house barbecues.
