Manny Ruiz is 63, runs a vintage neon sign restoration shop out of a cinder block garage in East Austin, and hasn’t voluntarily attended a neighborhood event in 11 years, ever since his ex-wife moved to Portland and took the dog and the good set of socket wrenches. His fatal flaw is that he’d rather spend three nights troubleshooting a flickering 1960s Whataburger “OPEN” sign than make small talk with anyone who doesn’t know the difference between argon and mercury vapor tubing. He only showed up to the October chili cookoff because the owner of the dive bar down the street owed him 200 bucks for the neon margarita sign he’d installed the week prior, and the guy said he’d knock the remaining 50 off his tab if Manny entered his mother’s old brisket chili recipe.
The beer tent smells like burnt hot dogs and Shiner Bock, the crowd is loud, half the attendees are wearing Texas Longhorns gear, and Manny is already counting the minutes until he can leave when he turns too fast to avoid a kid chasing a golden retriever, sloshing half his beer onto the canvas tote of the woman standing next to him. He fumbles for a stack of napkins from the table beside him, mumbles an apology, and their hands brush when he passes them over. Her nails are chipped mint green, her forearms are dotted with freckles and a tiny watercolor tattoo of a book on her wrist, and she smells like cinnamon gum and lavender laundry detergent. He freezes when he meets her eyes, because he knows her. It’s Clara Reyes, his late best friend Ritchie’s little sister, the kid he’d driven to high school soccer practice once a week when Ritchie was working double shifts at the auto shop, the girl Ritchie had made him swear never to so much as flirt with back when Manny was 22 and dumb enough to try.
She grins like she knows exactly what he’s thinking, wipes the beer off her tote, and says she’d recognize that stupid scar across his knuckle from when he tried to fix Ritchie’s truck without wearing gloves anywhere. She’s 54 now, works as the head librarian at the branch he stops at every other month to check out old 1950s sign design catalogs, and she’s been volunteering at the cookoff running the face painting booth all day. Manny’s throat goes tight. He’s spent so long walling himself off from any kind of connection that the first jolt of attraction makes him feel stupid, like he’s a teenager again, fumbling through his first date. He tells himself he should leave, that Ritchie would roll in his grave if he knew Manny was even standing this close to Clara, that this is just midlife nonsense that’ll end with him getting his heart broken again. But he stays.
He lets her drag him over to the chili judging table, lets her tease him about how his chili is the only one that has actual habanero heat instead of just ketchup and canned bean filler, listens while she rambles about the mural she’s painting on the side of the library, how she wants to incorporate neon-style line work because so many of the old neighborhood signs are getting torn down to make way for luxury apartment buildings. She leans in close when a group of rowdy college kids yell as their team scores on the portable TV set up by the tent, her shoulder pressing firm against his worn flannel for three full seconds, and he can feel the heat of her through the fabric. She says she’s had a crush on him since she was 17, never said anything because he was married, and Ritchie was always breathing down her neck about staying away from his “dumb idiot friends.” She says Ritchie would have laughed his ass off if he knew they were both single, hanging out at a chili cookoff 37 years later.
When they announce Manny won first place, he blinks in surprise. The prize is a cheap plastic trophy painted orange and a $50 gift card to the hardware store he goes to every Saturday. He turns to look for Clara, and she’s leaning against the table, holding a piece of the cornbread he brought with his chili, grinning so wide her cheeks crinkle at the corners. He doesn’t overthink it, doesn’t list all the reasons this is a bad idea, doesn’t remind himself of the promise he made to Ritchie all those years ago. He just asks her if she wants to come back to his shop, says he has a half-finished neon taco sign he’s working on for the new place down on 6th Street, and a stack of old conjunto records next to the cold beer in his mini fridge. She says yes before he finishes the sentence.
The walk back to his shop is three blocks long, the October air crisp enough that he can see his breath when he exhales, oak leaves crunching under their scuffed work boots. Their hands brush twice as they walk, the first time accidental, the second time deliberate, and the third time Manny laces his calloused, scarred fingers through hers, slow, like he’s afraid she’ll pull away. She doesn’t. The neon sign he left burning in the shop window glows pink and blue two blocks ahead, casting soft, colored light over the sidewalk in front of them.
