Raspados, Rivalry & Regret

1. Fabián

ONE

FABIáN

The thing about Bay Area summers is nobody prepares you for how disrespectful the heat gets.

People from everywhere hear California and think beaches, palm trees, perfect weather, and movie-star bullshit.

They don’t think about an East Bay parking lot in July, where the asphalt cooks the soles of your Vans, PG it’s more like obligation.” I turn to her, and she smirks.

“That’s even worse.”

She ignores that and looks me over, her mouth tightening. “And why are you dressed like that?”

I glance down at myself. Faded black crop top, old and cut uneven at the hem because I got sick of sweating through full shirts at the shop.

Charcoal Dickies with my daily work boots.

A thick silver chain with my St. Fabián pendant against my collarbone.

Tiny silver hoops in my ears and grease on my forearms and probably my face.

“It’s hot,” I mumble.

“Your whole stomach is out.” She eyes my shirt with pursed lips.

“Okay… and my stomach gets all sweaty…”

My tío coughs into his fist, and my tía narrows her eyes at him, then at me.

“You’re helping tomorrow,” she says.

I could try to argue.

I could remind her I have work, bring up the Civic, the Tacoma with brake issues, and the lady with the Subaru who thinks every noise is the transmission when it’s usually whatever Stanley cup she lost under the seat.

Or that I am twenty-eight years old and not available to be emotionally blackmailed into carrying coolers for family events.

Instead, I say, “What time?”

Because I’m not going to stand here and argue with the woman who raised me, fed me when her sister would leave me alone for weeks at a time, and then ultimately took me in so I wouldn’t end up in foster care.

Her smile blooms bright and victorious. “Noon.”

I look at my tío. “You said night market.”

“Setup starts early.”

“Setup for a night market starts at noon?”

My tía lifts the napkins. “You want shade or you want heatstroke?”

I look at the Civic, and the Civic looks back, silent and useless.

“I’m going to regret this,” I mutter.

My tía beams. “That’s the spirit.”

I regret it the next morning when my alarm goes off earlier than a reasonable man should be conscious and my body briefly considers death as an alternative to waking up.

I regret it when I shove another crop top on because the forecast says by noon it’s going to be ninety-three.

I regret it when I stop for coffee and the girl at the window calls me “hon” with enough pity in her voice to make me check my reflection.

But nothing makes me regret it more than when I pull into the cracked parking lot behind the community center and see a white pickup truck with a trailer already parked near the row of booth spaces.

Cárdenas Raspados.

The name is painted across the side in red and blue letters, with a cartoon cup wearing sunglasses and a little mustache.

It’s stupidly bright and completely annoying.

I park my truck three spaces away and sit there for a second with both hands on the wheel.

The market space is quiet this early, all metal frames and folded tables, vendors unloading bins, the air still cool enough to pretend the day might be decent.

In the distance, the freeway hums, and somewhere nearby, someone’s already playing music too loud.

I take a breath.

“You’re grown,” I tell myself. “You can be calm. You are not getting into a fight today over shaved ice and agua frescas.”

It’s almost believable. That is, until a sharp laugh cuts across the lot. One that makes my jaw lock.

I know that laugh.

I get out of my truck, my Vans hit the pavement, and the air hits the strip of skin between my crop top and waistband. I slam the cab door and grab the folding canopy from my truck bed, lifting it onto one shoulder.

Then I see him.