Javi Mendez, 52, had restored over 300 vintage neon signs in the 8 years since he’d moved to Austin and opened his workshop, and he’d avoided just as many social invites in that same span. His flaw, if you asked Rigo, his childhood friend who’d dragged him out to the annual East Austin Fall Beer Crawl that crisp October evening, was that he’d built walls higher than the metal shop rolling door he locked every night at 6 sharp, still raw from his ex-wife walking out without a note a year after they relocated. He’d rather solder glass tubes and troubleshoot faulty transformers than make small talk with strangers, but Rigo had threatened to hide his favorite gas pressure regulator if he bailed, so he’d shown up in his faded Pearl Jam hoodie, and planned to duck out after one IPA.
The beer garden hummed with the twang of a cover band playing old Steve Earle tracks, smoke from oak fire pits curling through strung Edison lights that cast gold over rows of picnic tables. He was halfway through his second beer, Rigo having wandered off to hit on a food truck vendor, when a laugh cut through the noise, bright and familiar, and he turned to see Lila Ruiz leaning against the brisket truck, holding a paper plate stacked with burnt ends, grinning at something the cashier had said. He hadn’t seen her since his wedding 12 years prior, when she’d been his ex-wife’s maid of honor, married to a dentist in Dallas, off-limits in every way that counted. He’d thought about her exactly three times in the years since, each time when he’d passed a crumpled wedding photo tucked in the back of his toolbox, her dark hair pulled back with a silk scarf, her eyes crinkling like she knew a secret no one else did.
She spotted him before he could look away, and her grin softened into something warmer, something curious, as she wiped her hands on the hem of her charcoal cashmere sweater and walked over. She was 48 now, he realized, a faint smattering of silver at her temples, the same scar above her left eyebrow he’d noticed at the wedding, from a college soccer injury she’d joked about back then. “Javi?” she said, stopping so close he could smell the cinnamon gum she was chewing, the vanilla of her lotion mixing with the smoky brisket scent clinging to her clothes. “I thought that was you. I moved here three months ago, got a job teaching high school art, I drove past your shop twice last month but was too nervous to knock. Figured you wouldn’t remember me.”
He did remember her, far more than he wanted to admit, and a tight, twisting feeling pulled at his chest, half disgust at the fact that he was even noticing how soft her sweater looked, half desire he’d buried so deep he’d thought it was gone for good. It was wrong, right? She was his ex’s cousin, had been in the wedding party, had listened to his ex complain about him for years before the split. He should make an excuse, say he had to get back to the shop, finish the sign he was restoring for the new taco joint on 6th Street. But he didn’t. He shifted, his boot scuffing the sawdust scattered across the grass, and patted the empty spot on the picnic bench next to him. “I remember,” he said, and when she sat, her thigh brushed his for half a second, light and accidental, and he felt the heat of it all the way up to his jaw.
They talked for an hour, first about the city, then about her divorce, finalized six months prior, then about his shop, the way he loved how neon glowed soft even on the rainiest Texas nights. She leaned in every time he spoke, her shoulder pressed to his now, like the band was too loud to hear him any other way, and when she passed him a pickle off her plate, her fingernail, painted deep burgundy, brushed his wrist, leaving a tingle that lingered long after she’d pulled her hand away. She told him she’d always thought he was too good for his ex, that she’d told her as much the night before the wedding, when his ex had complained that he spent too much time tinkering with old signs instead of planning the honeymoon. He’d never heard that before, and the resistance he’d been clinging to, the voice in his head screaming that this was a bad idea, that people would talk, that he’d just get hurt again, started to crack.
When the band packed up and the beer garden started closing, she asked if he’d show her the taco shop sign he was working on, and he said yes before he could think better of it. The walk to his shop was three blocks, the air cold enough that their breath fogged in front of them, and she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow halfway there, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He flipped on the lights when they got inside, the half-finished neon sign glowing pink and blue across the concrete floor, casting soft color over her face as she walked over to run a finger along the glass tubes. “It’s beautiful,” she said, turning to look up at him, her eyes dark in the colored light, and she leaned in, slow enough that he could have pulled away if he wanted to.
He didn’t want to. He kissed her, the taste of cinnamon gum and IPA on her lips, and for the first time in 8 years, he didn’t feel the urge to run. When they pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, and told her he didn’t want to rush anything, that he was still bad at this, at letting people in. She laughed, soft, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, said she had all the time in the world, she wasn’t going anywhere. She spotted the small neon cactus he’d made as a test piece sitting on the workbench, the green glow faint against the metal, and asked if she could buy it. He told her she could have it, no charge, if she agreed to meet him at the new taco joint next Friday for opening night.
She nodded, tucking the cactus under her arm, her fingers brushing his when he handed it to her. He locked the shop door behind them, the cool night air hitting his face as they stepped onto the sidewalk, and she slipped her hand into his, her palm warm even through the fabric of his work gloves. He watched the faint green glow from the neon cactus paint the cuff of her dark jeans as they walked toward the taco truck down the block, still open for late night crowds.
