Arlo Mendez is 62, a vintage neon sign restorer who’s lived in central Tucson long enough to remember when the downtown block parties didn’t have $12 cold brew stands and TikTokers filming trend reels. He’s avoided the annual summer bash for eight straight years, ever since his wife Linda died of ovarian cancer—she’d been the one who dragged him out to dance, sample every taco truck, badger local business owners into commissioning his work. His 28-year-old apprentice, Javi, begged him to come this year, said his mariachi group was playing their first public set, so Arlo caved, stuffed his work shirt pockets with lemon drops to suck on when the small talk got too tedious, and showed up an hour late.
He’s leaning against the side of the al pastor taco truck, boots stuck to asphalt glazed with spilled margarita mix, waiting for his order, when a woman’s hand reaches for the same frozen horchata cup he’s grabbing off the counter. Their knuckles brush. He feels the faint, rough callus on her index finger, the sharp cold of the plastic seeping into the scar tissue crisscrossing his own knuckles from decades of handling hot neon tubing. He yanks his hand back like he’s been shocked, then looks up, and his jaw tightens. It’s Elara Voss. Ex-wife of Dean Carter, the guy who stole three of his biggest commercial neon contracts back in 2010, ran his competing shop into the ground three years later by cutting every corner possible. Arlo’s only spoken to her twice, both times at industry trade shows, when she’d stood by Dean’s side and smiled like she didn’t know her husband was a thief.
She doesn’t pull her hand away right away. She smirks, the corner of her mouth tugging up like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. “Relax. I haven’t spoken to Dean in seven months. Finalized the divorce in March.” She picks up the horchata, holds it out to him. “You can have this one. I already drank two earlier.”
He takes it, ignores the way their fingers brush again when he grabs the cup. The back of his neck feels hot, and it’s not just the 98-degree sunset heat. He’s spent 13 years hating everything tied to Dean, had written her off as just as much of a grifter as he was, but now she’s standing three inches from his shoulder, wearing a linen sunflower print dress that smells like lavender lotion and roasted pineapple from the taco truck grill, her salt and pepper hair pulled back in a loose braid, a smudge of ink on her left cheek from stamping book bags. She runs the banned book pop-up at the library, she tells him, has for four years. She quit doing the books for Dean’s shop in 2018, when she found out he was cheating on her with his 22-year-old receptionist and lying about their finances to hide the money he was blowing on weekend trips to Cabo.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, leaning in a little so she can be heard over the mariachi group tuning up, “I always thought your work was better. All of Dean’s signs faded within two years. Yours from the 90s are still glowing on Fourth Avenue.” She nods at his hands, where the neon burn scars stand out pale against his tanned skin. “I remember you won that award for the Rialto Theater marquee. Dean threw his phone across the room when they announced it.”
Arlo snorts, takes a sip of horchata, the sweet rice milk cold against his throat. He should leave. He told himself he’d stay for two songs tops, then go back to his workshop and finish the pink and blue neon sign he’s making for the new independent bookstore opening next month. But he stays. She laughs at his dry joke about LED signs being the cheap, soulless garbage of the sign world, leans in and touches his bicep when he tells the story of how he spent three nights on a scissor lift fixing the Rialto marquee in the middle of a monsoon, her palm warm through the worn denim of his work shirt. He finds himself telling her about Linda, about how she loved these block parties, about how he’d stopped coming because it felt wrong to be there without her. She doesn’t give him the pitying look everyone else does when he mentions Linda. She just nods, says she knows what that feels like, that she spent two years avoiding the botanical gardens because Dean used to take her there every anniversary.
The mariachi group starts playing a slow, swaying cumbia. Javi catches his eye from the stage, grins, and gives him a thumbs up. Elara tilts her head, looks up at him through her lashes. “You dance?”
He hesitates. He hasn’t danced since Linda died. He’s got two left feet, always has, and half the people here know him as the grumpy neon guy who never leaves his shop. But he nods. She takes his hand, her fingers lacing through his, and leads him to the patch of asphalt cleared out for dancing. His hand rests light on her waist, he can feel the curve of her hip through the thin linen of her dress, her other hand rests on his shoulder, her thumb brushing the small, faded scar on his neck from a neon tube that shattered on him back in 2007. He steps on her toe twice, mumbles an apology both times, and she laughs, the sound warm against his ear, says it’s fine, she’s never been much of a dancer either. For a minute, he forgets about Dean, forgets about the 8 years he spent holed up in his workshop alone, forgets about the list of repairs he has to get done next week. All he can feel is the warm summer air on his face, the low thrum of the trumpet in his chest, the weight of her hand in his.
When the song ends, she doesn’t let go of his hand. “You said you’re working on a sign for the new bookstore, right? I helped curate their opening inventory. Can I see it?”
He nods, leads her down the block to his workshop, the small cinder block building he’s owned since 1996. He unlocks the door, flips the switch for the neon sign he’s been finishing, the words “READ WIDELY” glowing bright pink and electric blue against the cinder block walls, casting color over the stacks of old tubing and workbench covered in tools. She turns to face him, her skin streaked pink and blue from the glow, and leans in, her lips brushing his.
