Manny Rocha is 62, a custom neon sign restorer who’s worked out of the same cinder block workshop on the edge of Silverton, Oregon, for 27 years. His left forearm bears a thin, silvery scar from a tube implosion 12 years back, and he’s avoided every town community event for eight straight years, ever since his wife Elena passed from ovarian cancer. His worst, most closely guarded secret is that he’d nursed a quiet, guilt-ridden crush on Elena’s younger sister Lila for 20 years before his wife died—he’d never acted on it, never even said a word, but the shame of it had kept him dodging Lila’s calls, skipping family dinners, leaving town any time she came up to visit.
He’d only dragged himself to the summer food truck rally that Tuesday to drop off a custom neon taco sign he’d built for the new street taco vendor parked at the far end of the lot. The air hummed with the low thrum of a mariachi band set up by the beer tent, thick with the smell of charred elote, fried dough, and citrus from the shaved ice stand. He was hefting the bubble-wrapped neon tube over his shoulder, stepping back to avoid a kid on a razor scooter zooming past with a snow cone dripping blue syrup down his wrist, when he bumped straight into someone soft.
The impact sent a paper tray of fried oreos tipping slightly, powdered sugar dusting the front of his faded Carhartt work shirt. He started to apologize, then froze when he looked up. It was Lila. She was 48 now, her dark hair streaked with threads of silver at the temples, cut short in a messy bob that stuck to the back of her neck with sweat. She was wearing a loose linen sundress the color of sea glass, scuffed white tennis shoes, and her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, the same way she had when she was 19 and showed up at his and Elena’s house at 2 a.m. with a flat tire and a case of cheap beer.
She was standing so close he could smell coconut sunscreen and the vanilla extract she always put in her coffee, the hem of her dress brushing the top of his steel-toe work boots. When she reached out to steady the wobbling neon tube in his arms, her warm wrist brushed the scar on his forearm, and he flinched like he’d been burned. She didn’t pull her hand away right away, her thumb brushing the raised edge of the scar for half a second before she stepped back, wiping powdered sugar off her own jeans.
He stammered out an apology, already making an excuse to leave, but she shook her head, nodding at the empty folding table off to the side of the taco truck, out of the foot traffic. He couldn’t think of a good enough reason to say no. They sat down, and she told him she’d moved back to Silverton two weeks prior, taken over as the town library director after the old head retired. She said she’d stopped by his house three times already, left flyers for the library’s new adult art program in his mailbox, noticed he always kept the neon porch light he’d made for Elena burning even when he was at the workshop.
The shame coiled tight in his chest, hot and heavy—he felt like a creep, like he was betraying Elena just sitting next to Lila, but he couldn’t make himself stand up. Every time she laughed, her elbow brushed his bicep, and he didn’t move away. He kept staring at the smudge of powdered sugar on her lower lip, his hands sweating so bad he had to wipe them on his jeans every two minutes. She told him she’d thought about him a lot after Elena’s funeral, that Elena had told her once, a few months before she died, that she wanted Manny to stop closing himself off from everyone once she was gone.
He felt his throat go tight. He’d spent eight years convinced that even thinking about Lila made him a bad husband, that the quiet, unspoken spark he’d felt between them for decades was something dirty, something he had to bury. When she leaned across the table, her face inches from his, and swiped a smudge of powdered sugar off his cheek with her thumb, he froze. She held his gaze, her thumb brushing his skin for a beat longer than necessary, and said she’d felt the same spark for just as long, that she’d felt guilty about it too, that she didn’t want to keep ignoring it just because it felt taboo.
The tight coil in his chest unfurled all at once. He reached out, slow, like he was afraid she’d pull away, and brushed the powdered sugar off her lower lip with his thumb. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut for half a second, and he didn’t feel guilty anymore. He felt light, like the weight he’d been carrying for eight years had just lifted off his shoulders.
When the taco truck owner waved at him to come get the sign set up, he stood up, wiping his hands on his shirt again, and asked her if she wanted to come back to his workshop after the rally. He told her he was working on a custom neon book stack sign for the library’s new teen section, that he wanted her input on the colors. She grinned, taking a bite of the last fried oreo on her tray, and licked the powdered sugar off her fingers while she nodded. He walked toward the taco truck, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel like rushing to get home alone.
