Javier “Javi” Ruiz, 53, vintage neon sign restorer, hadn’t set foot at his East Austin neighborhood’s annual summer block party in 12 years. He’d skipped every one since his ex-wife Diane left him for a SaaS sales rep who wore white leather loafers to backyard barbecues, let his grudge fester enough that he turned down three invites from the neighborhood association to be honored for restoring the 1970s neon bodega marquee three blocks from his shop. He only showed up this year because his 19-year-old apprentice Manny begged him, said Manny’s abuela was making her famous chile rellenos exclusively for the event and Javi would be a fool to miss out.
The air hung thick as wet wool, 92 degrees with humidity that made his t-shirt stick to his back 10 minutes after he walked out the door. He leaned against the side of the taco truck, sipping a cold Modelo, nodding at neighbors he recognized but hadn’t spoken to in years, trying to avoid eye contact with Diane, who he’d spotted 20 feet away by the snow cone stand flirting with a guy in a cowboy hat. He was half debating bailing entirely to head back to his shop and sand down a broken neon cactus sign when someone bumped hard into his side.
It was a woman holding a paper plate heaped with elote, cheese dust caked on her wrist, a streak of lime juice running down her forearm. Her elbow brushed his bare bicep — he wore a faded 1993 Guns N’ Roses cutoff, his own neon cactus tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve — and she yelped, dropping a crumpled napkin at his feet. He bent to grab it at the same time she did, their foreheads knocking softly enough to make them both snort laugh. She smelled like coconut sunscreen and charred corn, silver hoop earrings catching the golden hour light so bright they made him blink for half a second.
“Javi, right?” She held his gaze for three full beats longer than polite, no awkward look away, no nervous fidget, just a half-smirk playing on the corner of her mouth. He recognized her then, almost dropped his beer. Lila, Diane’s much younger half-sister, the one he’d met exactly once at Diane’s cousin’s wedding 15 years earlier, when she was 19 and covered in acrylic paint stains from art school, too shy to say more than two words to him. She was 34 now, teaching high school art in Austin, she said, moved here three months prior, had been asking neighbors where to find the guy who fixed all the neighborhood neon signs.
The first thought that popped into his head was that this was a terrible idea. Diane would pitch a fit loud enough to be heard all the way in Round Rock. The neighborhood gossips would have a field day. He’d spent 12 years avoiding all ties to his marriage, purposefully keeping anyone even tangentially related to Diane at arm’s length, and here he was, leaning against a taco truck, unable to look away from the way her tongue darted out to lick a fleck of cotija cheese off her lower lip. He felt the pull so strong it made his chest tight, warring with the part of his brain that screamed this was taboo, that he’d regret it, that he was just setting himself up for more embarrassment, more heartache.
She stepped a little closer, close enough that he could feel the heat coming off her skin through the thin cotton of her linen sundress, held out her hand for the napkin he was still clutching. Their fingers brushed when she took it, her palm calloused at the base of her thumb from holding paintbrushes for hours, his calloused from bending glass tubing and running sanders. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, tilting her head so her hair fell over one shoulder. “That getting involved with your ex-wife’s little sister is the kind of dumb drama you’ve spent a decade running from. Fair. But I’m not Diane. And I don’t care what any of these people think.”
He glanced over her shoulder, spotted Diane laughing so hard at something the cowboy hat guy said that she snort-laughed, the same way she used to when they were first dating. For half a second he almost turned Lila down, almost made an excuse about having a sign to fix early the next morning, almost ran back to his quiet, empty shop where no one could mess with the rigid routine he’d built to protect himself. But then Lila reached out, tapped the cactus tattoo on his bicep with one finger, and grinned. “Also, I heard you have a neon flamingo in your shop you’re restoring for the dive bar down the street. I’ve been dying to see it.”
He nodded, jerked his head toward the empty lot at the end of the block where the neighborhood was setting up fireworks for later. “C’mon. We can watch the fireworks first. Then I’ll show you the flamingo.”
She cheered softly, tucking her half-eaten elote plate into a nearby trash can, lacing her fingers through his before he had time to overthink it. Her hand was warm, a little sticky from the elote, calluses catching on his, and he didn’t pull away. The first firework exploded overhead right then, bright red, painting both their faces pink as they walked toward the lot, the distant mariachi band mixing with crowd chatter behind them. He squeezed her hand once, tight, and didn’t even glance back to see if Diane was watching.
