1. Fabián #2
Elías Cárdenas stands by the back of the trailer, one hand braced on the open door, the other holding a clipboard like he’s in charge of something more complicated than ice and syrup.
He’s wearing the absolute shortest black workout shorts I’ve ever seen.
A faded white tee hangs loose on him, tucked just enough in the front to make the whole situation everyone’s problem, and a silver chain rests at his throat.
His ears are pierced, adorned with tiny silver studs and hoops, and glasses sit low on his nose. Narrow black frames that should make him look responsible but somehow make him look worse.
Okay, maybe not worse.
Just… extra.
He turns his head, tongue poking out to wet his bottom lip, and the tiny silver ball in his tongue catches the sun. My brain stalls. Like, the engine keeps turning over, and nothing catches. That type of stall. Then his eyes land on me, and that son of a bitch’s mouth curves.
There it is—the look. The one that says he woke up today and chose to be a pain in my ass.
“Salcedo,” he calls.
I keep walking. “Cárdenas.”
His gaze drops, and not subtly. He looks at my chest, my stomach, and the low waist of my Dickies, then back up. His eyebrows lift behind his glasses.
I stop in front of him with the canopy still on my shoulder. “What?”
“Nada.”
“Nah, you got something to say? Say it.”
His tongue darts out again. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked like you wanted to say something,” I press.
He grins. “Just didn’t know we’re running a booth at Pride.”
I stare at him, and his grin widens.
Behind him, an older woman I recognize as his mother smacks his arm with a rolled-up apron. “Elías—”
“What, Ma? It’s a nice shirt.”
She gives me a once-over before speaking. “It’s half a shirt.”
“It’s efficient,” I snap.
Elías points at me like I’ve just proved something. “See? A practical little crop top.”
“It’s a work shirt.” I grumble and shift my weight as I keep the canopy up on my shoulder.
“More like a napkin with ambition.”
My grip tightens on the canopy.
His mother pinches the bridge of her nose. “Dios mío, it is too early for the fighting. We still have hours.”
From behind me, my tío appears carrying a plastic bin. “Buenos días.”
Elías’s mother smiles at him. “Buenos días, Jorge.”
And just like that, the adults start acting like this is totally normal. Like their sons, nephews, whatever the fuck we are, aren’t two seconds away from turning a permit mistake into a police report.
Elías steps closer and tips his chin at the canopy. “You need help with that, tough guy?”
“No.”
“You sure? You look like you’re struggling.” He smirks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his thumb.
“I could throw this fucker over the trailer.”
“Do it. It needs shade.”
His mother makes another exhausted sound, and I walk past him toward the booth space, because if I stay close to him, I’m going to say something that gets quoted in family group chats for the rest of my life.
That’s when I find out that our assigned space is worse than I imagined. Not because it is small. It is actually a decent corner spot near the main walkway, close to where the food trucks will park later.
It is worse because there are two chalk outlines on the pavement where two booths were supposed to be, and somebody has scribbled over the dividing line with orange spray paint.
One space.
Two families.
One fucking nightmare of a summer.
I set the canopy down harder than necessary, and Elías comes up beside me, dragging a cooler that scrapes against the pavement, loud and ugly.
“You always this dramatic?” he asks.
“I dunno? You always this irritating?”
He gives me a playful smirk. “Only when I’m awake.”
“So all day,” I say, glancing over and immediately regretting it.
He has one hand on the cooler handle, shoulders flexed under that loose tee, shorts riding up a little higher from the pull. His thighs are brown and strong and right fucking there, because apparently fabric is expensive now.
I look away.
Fast.
But not nearly fast enough, because instantly his smile changes. It’s small, but so sharp it could cut ice. The kind of smile that makes me want to hit reverse and run myself over with my own truck.
“You good, Salcedo?”
I scoff. “Fine.”
“You don’t look fine. I’d say you look mad.”
This motherfucker. “I am mad.”
“At me?” He presses a hand to the center of his chest.
I roll my eyes; of course he’s so self-centered that he would think it’s all about him. “At the concept of you.”
He laughs, and the sound slides under my skin.
And I hate that.
I hate him and his stupid fucking shorts.
His mother and my tía show up to the booth area at the same time, both talking at once.
In less than five minutes, they have decided where the tables are going, where the cooler goes, how the agua fresca will be lined up, where the raspado machine goes, and exactly how useless we are unless we lift things.
So we lift things, and for the next couple of hours, I carry tables, coolers, crates of fruit, a metal tub full of ice scoops, and three bins of God knows what. Elías carries just as much—I’ll give him that. The man doesn’t whine, but that doesn’t stop him from running his mouth the whole time.
But he works.
Hard.
Sweat beads at his hairline and slides down the side of his neck.
He pushes his glasses up with the back of his wrist, leaving a wet smudge on the lens.
When he bends to grab a case of syrup bottles, his shorts pull tight across his ass, and I almost drop a folding table on my foot from staring too hard.
“Careful,” he says without looking back.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, opening the table up and wiping my chin with the back of my hand.
Oh my God, that better be sweat. It’s not drool… I wouldn’t be drooling over Elías Cárdenas’s ass.
“Sure, papi.”
I freeze, and before I can process it completely, his mother says, “Elías,” from somewhere inside the trailer.
He coughs like he is hiding a laugh.
I turn slowly. “What’d you call me?”
He looks over his shoulder, eyes too innocent. “What?”
“You heard me, pendejo. What the fuck did you just call me?”
“I told you to be careful.” He chuckles under his breath.
“Nah, after that.”
He turns around and stares at me. “Maybe your ears are still asleep.”
“My ears are pierced, not stupid.”
His eyes flick to one of my hoops. Then lower, to the chain at my throat. Then even lower, to where sweat has made my crop top cling to my chest.
For half a second, his expression shifts. It’s quick; his throat moves when he swallows, and the sight of him doing it makes something warm and unpleasant curl low in my stomach.
Okay, not unpleasant—I’m lying to myself.
That is the problem.
I step closer so he straightens. The case of syrup bottles sits between us like a bright plastic warning. Bottles of Fresa, Mango, Tamarindo, Pina, and Watermelon. All lined up and all too sweet.
“You got something to say?” I ask.
He tilts his head, and the silver ball in his tongue flashes again when he speaks. “You always this sensitive before coffee?”
“I had coffee.” What I could really use right now is a shot of tequila… or seven.
He winces and says, “Then maybe you need another.”
“Maybe you need longer shorts.”
His eyebrows jump when the words hit the air, and I hear them a second too late. That makes his smile come back slow.
Terrible.
Devastating.
A crime scene wearing glasses.
“Are my shorts bothering you, Fabián?”
I never like how my name sounds coming from his mouth. He always says it like he’s testing the weight of it with his teeth.
“Na-no—” I stutter.
“Then why are you worried about them?” He stops what he’s doing to lean back against one of the tables, spreading his legs just enough to give me a glimpse of his inner thighs.
“I’m just…” I clear my throat. “Worried about public decency. You know there are gonna be kids here.”
“You—” he chuckles, eyes dropping to my waist. “Worried about public decency… in that shirt?”
“For the last time, it’s a work shirt.” I grab at my chest, where my tío’s shop logo is printed. “See.”
“It’s a crop top.”
“It’s hot.”
“Yeah,” he says, taking in a slow breath with his eyes on me. “I noticed.”
Something in my chest punches once, and it’s worse than fear because I don’t have a name for it.
“Boys,” my tía calls. “Stop flirting and move the table to where it needs to go.”
Every vendor in a six-booth radius goes silent for half a second.
Elías’s mouth drops open.
I turn toward my tía. “We’re not flirting.”
She doesn’t even look up from arranging her cups. “Then stop doing whatever that is.”
Elías makes a strangled sound beside me, and to keep from going off on him, I grab the table. He grabs the other end, and we lift it at the same time, both of us suddenly very interested in not looking at each other.
When eight-thirty rolls around, the market’s in full swing.
String lights twinkle above the walkways.
Music thumps from a DJ booth near the beer garden, and kids run around with sticky hands and glow bracelets.
The smell of grilled meat, kettle corn, fried dough, and hot pavement hangs in the air.
Someone’s uncle is yelling about parking; there’s a toddler crying like the world has ended because their paleta fell on the concrete.
Normal summer market stuff.
Our booth should be a disaster with how tense everything is between Elías and me; instead, it’s busy.
Too busy.
My tía’s aguas frescas are selling out fast, and the Cárdenas family has a line for raspados that curves past the neighboring jewelry booth. I’m stuck taking payments because apparently I have the “don’t try me” face that discourages people from asking for discounts.
Elías works the shaved ice machine like he was born behind it.
He packs ice into cups, pours syrup, and adds fruit, chamoy, Tajín, candy, condensed milk, or whatever people ask for.
He talks to everybody. Kids love him; aunties love him.
Girls love looking at him, and even the men laugh at his jokes when they aren’t funny.
He moves fast, his mouth even faster.