Elias Voss, 58, makes his living restoring vintage neon signs for dive bars and old diners across southern Ohio, and has avoided the annual Maple Street block party for 12 straight years. The only reason he’s here now is his niece, Lila, who’s house-sitting for the summer, begged him to come, said she’d stop bringing him homemade peach pie every Sunday if he bailed. He’s propped against the side of the taco truck, cold Pabst in one hand, still flecked with neon tube dust on the knees of his work jeans, ignoring every neighbor who tries to wave him over to the cornhole tables. He still resents the HOA for siding with his ex-wife when she left him for the board’s then-vice president, a guy who wore boat shoes every day and once tried to fine Elias for leaving a half-restored “BEER” sign on his front porch for three days.
The line for tacos shuffles forward, and a woman bumps his elbow hard enough that a dribble of hot sauce runs down the front of his faded Carhartt shirt. He looks up ready to snap, and the words die in his throat. He recognizes her immediately: Mara, who runs the used bookstore three doors down from his shop. He’s seen her through his front window a hundred times, hauling boxes of paperbacks, propping new poetry collections on the sidewalk stand, but he’s never spoken to her. She’s wearing cut-off denim shorts and a faded 1977 Fleetwood Mac tour tee, a streak of gray in her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, chipped deep red polish on her nails. She laughs, warm and loud, over the sound of the DJ spinning old Johnny Cash, and grabs a handful of napkins from the stack on the taco truck counter. “My bad, I was too busy staring at the guy in the inflatable flamingo costume over by the bounce house. Let me get that for you.”
She leans in before he can protest, dabbing at the hot sauce stain on his chest. He can smell vanilla and old paper and the faint tang of lime on her breath, her knuckle brushing the edge of his collarbone when she presses the napkin down. His ears go hot. He hasn’t been this close to a woman who wasn’t his niece or the cashier at the grocery store in close to a decade. He notices the small black bee tattoo on her wrist as she pulls back, and he nods at it, awkward. “I keep hives out behind my shop. Sell the honey at the farmers market on Saturdays.” Her eyes light up, and she leans in again, this time on purpose, shoulder brushing his. “No shit. I’ve been buying that wildflower honey for two years. I had no idea it was yours.”
They talk for 20 minutes, leaning against the taco truck, ignoring the rest of the party. She tells him her ex-husband was the HOA president who tried to fine her for putting a free little library outside her store, said it was a “visual blight” on the neighborhood. He snorts, and tells her about the time he snuck a tiny neon “FUCK THE HOA” sign into the front window of his shop for a week, until his ex’s new husband threatened to take him to court. She laughs so hard she snorts, and covers her mouth, cheeks pink. The first firework goes off overhead, a bright burst of gold that lights up the whole street, and the crowd cheers. Everyone shuffles toward the empty lot at the end of the block to get a better view, and Mara falls into step next to him, her arm brushing his every few steps.
They stand shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the lot, the grass tickling the bare ankles peeking out of his work boots. Another firework goes off, louder than the last, and she flinches a little, leaning into his side, her warm weight pressing against his ribs. He doesn’t move away. For 12 years, he’s hated this street, hated the neighbors, hated every reminder of the life he lost when his wife left. Standing here, with the smell of grilled corn and her vanilla perfume mixing in the air, the distant sound of kids screaming as they chase each other with glow sticks, he realizes he hasn’t felt this light in longer than he can remember.
She tilts her head up to look at him, the pink and blue bursts of the fireworks reflecting in her eyes, and she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I have a 1950s OPEN neon sign in my back storage. Been broken for six months. Every repair guy I called said it was too far gone to fix. You think you could take a look at it tomorrow? I’ll make you that peach iced tea you like, the one I sell at the bookstore counter.” He freezes for half a second, the old instinct to say no, to retreat back to his quiet shop and his bees and his work, to not risk getting hurt again, rising up fast. But then she smiles, a little shy, and he remembers how her hand felt brushing his collarbone, how she laughed at his stupid HOA story, how she’s been buying his honey for two years and never said a word. He nods. “Yeah. I can come by around 10.”
She grins, and pulls a scrap of receipt paper out of her back pocket, scribbles her number on it in blue ballpoint, and shoves it into the front pocket of his Carhartt shirt, her fingers brushing his wrist when she pulls her hand away. The final firework goes off overhead, a deep, bright red that paints the whole street crimson, and the crowd erupts in cheers. He tucks his hand into his pocket, presses his thumb against the rough edge of the receipt, the ink smudging a little under his skin.
