Elias Voss, 52, vintage neon sign restorer, is only at his coastal Oregon town’s annual summer block party because 78-year-old Mrs. Hale, owner of the old Shoreline Motel, begged him to swing by for the final check for the 1950s “VACANCY” sign he’d spent three weeks restoring. He’d planned to grab the check, slip out before anyone could corner him into small talk, and head back to his converted garage shop to solder a broken transformer for the Astoria diner job due at week’s end. The exit is blocked by a hooting crowd surrounding a kids’ sack race, so he detours to the beer tent, grabs an IPA, leans against a folding table to wait out the chaos.
The air is 82 degrees, thick with salt and the smell of grilled sausage and burnt sugar from the cotton candy stand. He’s just working up the nerve to cut through the grass around the race when a woman’s bare arm brushes his, warm and sun-kissed, as she reaches over him for a handful of limes from the plastic bucket on the table next to his elbow. He recognizes her immediately: Marisol, who opened the taco stand three blocks from his shop two months prior, the one he stops at every Friday for a carnitas taco on his way back from supply runs. She smells like coconut sunscreen and grilled pineapple, the same scent that lingers on the napkins he shoves in his truck console after visits. She pulls back, limes clutched in her fist, and holds his gaze longer than a casual stranger would, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Was starting to think you lived exclusively in that garage of yours,” she says, nodding at the flannel he’s wearing even in the heat, the one dotted with faint neon burn marks on the cuffs.
Elias tenses up first, his default reaction to anyone acknowledging he exists outside of sign repairs. He’s spent three years deliberately keeping his distance from most people in town, still stinging from the mess his ex-wife left behind when she cheated on him with his business partner, convinced any new connection will end with someone taking something he’s worked for. He’s about to mumble a polite excuse and leave when she laughs, a low, warm sound, and taps his bicep with the back of her hand, her touch lingering a half second longer than necessary, warmth seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt. “Relax, I’m not gonna corner you into buying a fire department raffle ticket,” she says. “I just wanted to tell you the sombrero sign you did for my stand? The flicker on the brim? My regulars love it. Said it feels like old Mexico.”
He blinks, surprised. He’d done that sign for a cut rate, figured the new small business could use a break, hadn’t even thought she’d connect it back to him. He finds himself talking longer than he planned, telling her how he intentionally left the flicker instead of fixing it, how old neon has character the new LED stuff can’t touch, how he learned to repair signs from his dad who ran a shop in Fresno back in the 70s. She listens, no interruptions, leaning in a little when he talks about the way gas glows different shades depending on the glass coating, her elbow brushing his every time someone walks past too close. When the sack race ends and the exit clears, he doesn’t move to leave.
She suggests they walk down to the jetty to watch the sunset, says the taco stand is covered by her cousin for the rest of the night. He hesitates for half a second, the voice in his head yelling that this is a bad idea, that he doesn’t do casual hangs, that he’s too old for the flirtation he’s picking up on, that she’s twelve years younger than him and probably just bored. Then he looks at her, golden hour sun hitting her dark hair, a smudge of chili powder on her left cheek, and he nods. The walk to the jetty is short, the boardwalk creaking under their boots, mariachi music fading behind them as they get closer to the water. Waves crash loud enough that they have to stand close to hear each other talk, their shoulders brushing every time a gust of wind comes off the ocean.
They stop at the end of the jetty, leaning against weathered grey wood pilings that have stood since the 60s. He’s been fighting the urge to reach for her hand the whole walk, telling himself he’s being ridiculous, reading too much into the way she’s laughed at all his bad jokes about stubborn transformers and finicky neon gas. Then she turns to him, tilting her chin up, and says she’s been leaving extra lime and cilantro in his taco order for two months, and he never even mentioned it. He laughs, surprised, realizes he’d been so wrapped up in his own head he hadn’t noticed. He reaches out without thinking, brushes a strand of windblown hair off her face, his thumb swiping the smudge of chili powder off her cheek. She doesn’t pull back, just leans into his touch a little, her eyes going soft.
They stay there until the sun dips fully below the horizon, the sky turning deep purple and orange, the first neon signs of the town flickering to life behind them, pink and blue and green glowing through the coastal haze. He doesn’t mention his ex-wife, doesn’t mention the mess he left behind in Portland, doesn’t list all the reasons this is a bad idea. When she asks if he wants to come back to the taco stand with her to split a plate of churros, he says yes without hesitation. He shoves his free hand in his pocket, his fingers brushing the crumpled check from Mrs. Hale, and falls into step next to her as they walk back up the boardwalk, his shoulder brushing hers every few steps.
