2. Elías #2
“Will you stop saying that?”
She grabs my arm and tugs me aside, where we’re a little more out of earshot. “You’re into him?”
“No,” I lie. “God no.”
“You’re into Fabián Salcedo.” She practically squeals it, bouncing on her toes.
“I’m into minding my own fucking business. You should try it sometime.”
She presses both hands over her mouth, shoulders shaking. I glance toward Fabián, and he’s still messing with the canopy, thank God, not looking at us. His tío stands nearby pretending to help but mostly holding a pole and criticizing angles.
“I hate you,” I tell my sister.
“No, you hate him.” She nods toward Fabián. “Allegedly.”
“There is no allegedly. I hate him.”
She nods. “Sure.”
“I do,” I press.
“Mm-hmm.” She nods again, pressing her lips into a line so she doesn’t smile.
“He’s arrogant.” I start listing things off like it’s gonna help my case.
“Yes—”
“And rude.”
“Absolutely.” She smirks, and I can tell she isn’t buying a word of what I’m saying.
“He’s always scowling.”
“Very—” she chokes on a laugh. “Scary.”
“And he thinks he’s better than everyone.”
“Does he, or does he just not talk much because he’s not you?”
I gasp. “Family betrayal.”
“You talk enough for three cousins and a mariachi band, Elías.”
“That’s called having charisma.” I roll my eyes.
She pinches my side and says, “That’s called having undiagnosed something.”
I point at the cups in her arms. “Stock those before I tell Julio you called him illiterate again.”
“He knows.” She starts walking backward, grinning. “And Lalo?”
“What?”
She nods toward Fabián again, but this time I refuse to look. “He’s not wearing those crop tops by accident.”
Then she disappears behind the trailer before I can throw anything at her. I definitely do not look at Fabián after that.
For at least eleven seconds.
Then I look, and he’s looking back, and the look on his face makes my stomach drop. Fabián’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying to figure out what I said. Or what Anita said. Or why I am standing here holding nothing with my glasses crooked and my soul trying to leave my body.
I straighten my glasses, and I catch him looking down at my hand. Then my mouth.
Then away, like he’s ashamed of himself. It is so quick I almost miss it.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
I walk over because I have no self-preservation. “You need help?”
Fabián doesn’t look at me. “Nope.”
I sigh. “You always say no.”
“Usually means I don’t need help.”
“You sure? You’re sweating.”
“It’s hot.” He groans, but still grabs a towel and wipes his brow.
“Yeah.” I let my eyes drop, slowly. His crop top has fallen back down, but not enough. His jaw tightens when he notices me staring.
Beautiful—I mean irritating.
His tío suddenly clears his throat and holds out the canopy pole to me. “Here. Make yourself useful, Lalo. I need to get some water.”
I take it. “I am always useful.”
Fabián snorts, and I look at him. “Now it seems like you’ve got something to say?”
“Nada.”
“You snorted,” I say, glaring at him as if it will force his stupid mouth to open and spill what his issue is.
“I breathed.”
“Like a hater,” I say.
“I breathed like a normal person.”
Ugh, what a dick. “You brood like a telenovela villain.”
“And you dress like a fucking lifeguard who got banned from the pool.”
I look down at my shorts. “These are summer shorts.”
“They’re glorified underwear with pockets.”
His tío chokes, and I smile. Fabián’s face doesn’t change, but his ears go a little red.
Just a little, and it makes him pretty fucking adorable.
Nope.
Nope, nope, nope.
I do not want Fabián Salcedo.
That is not a thought I’m entertaining. It’s too early in the day for that—I haven’t even had lunch. Men shouldn’t have sexual identity crises before tacos.
We get the canopy up without anyone dying, which feels like growth, and then we spend the rest of the time prepping.
My mom and Fabián’s tía move around each other with the coordination of women who’ve already decided this booth merger is permanent because it makes money and gives them something to gossip about.
Fabián works quietly, and that’s the thing about him. I call him arrogant because it’s easier than admitting I notice the rest. He doesn’t complain or slack off. He fixes the wobbly table leg with a piece of cardboard; he rewires the extension cord situation so nobody trips.
He carries the heavy cooler himself when my mom starts reaching for it.
Fabián says almost nothing while doing all of this, which is annoying because I talk when I’m nervous, and he just exists with his stupid, competent hands sans verbal diarrhea.
The tips of his fingers are stained red from cutting strawberries at prep, and that's when I get a good look at his hands. His fingers are thick, rough, and careful when they need to be. I watch him use a pocketknife to slice through a package of straws.
The silver ring on his thumb flashes in the lights, and then his crop top shifts again, and I get a glimpse of his tattoo on his upper right rib. A pair of hibiscus flowers.
I drop a bottle of tamarindo syrup, and it hits the table with a plastic thud.
Fabián glances up. “Whoa, you okay?”
I hate that he keeps asking me that and that his voice gets lower every time he does.
“I’m perfect,” I say.
“You know, lying doesn’t help situations.” He sighs. “If you need help with something, let me know. I’m not as useless as you think I am.”
Damn him for sounding sincere. “If I need your help, I’ll let you know.”
“Whatever you say, clumsy.”
“God, you’re fucking bitter.” I snort.
“Loud motherfuck—.”
“—Pretty fucking asshole.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Fabián freezes, and I freeze too.
The whole booth keeps moving around us. My mom tells someone to move a cooler. His tía laughs at something near the back table. A vendor tests a speaker somewhere across the lot.
But between me and Fabián, everything locks.
His eyes lift to mine.
Slow.
“What?”
I should play it off, because I am excellent at playing things off. I’ve built an entire personality out of talking fast enough that nobody can tell when I’m telling the truth.
Instead, I smirk because my mouth is suicidal. “I said you’re pretty fucking loud for someone so quiet.”
His stare stays locked on mine while his head shakes slowly back and forth. “That’s not what you said.”
My pulse kicks, and I lean one hip against the table and shrug. “Maybe your pierced ears heard wrong.”
His eyes narrow and then, because God hates me or loves me too much, his gaze drops to my mouth.
My tongue ring sits heavy behind my teeth.
I click it once.
Fabián’s nostrils flare.
Oh.
Oh, this is bad.
Not just me bad.
Him bad.
Fabián Salcedo can stand there with his crop top, nipple piercings, and angry eyebrows all he wants. But he’s looking at my mouth.
My mouth.
This is interesting as hell.
“Boys,” his tía calls. “Put the fruit in the cooler before it gets warm.”
Fabián looks away first, and I count it as a victory because I am petty and spiritually unwell.
The market’s even busier than yesterday. More people bring more noise. Someone starts grilling carne asada two booths down, and the smell nearly makes me abandon my family business for a plate. Kids run by holding light-up swords.
Teenagers crowd near the agua fresca table. A group of women in matching “Bay Area Baddies Brunch Club” shirts order six raspados and ask if Fabián is single.
I nearly dump chamoy on my own hand as the conversation unfolds.
Fabián, who is ringing them up, says, “No.”
I look at him, and the women giggle.
One of them asks, “No, you’re not single?”
He stares at the tablet. “No, I’m not answering that question.”
They giggle harder, and I hate them for it. Not because I care. Because they’re holding up the line.
Obviously.
The tallest one leans on the table, eyes on Fabián’s arms. “You work out, don’t you?”
His expression doesn’t change as he rings them up. “I work.”
I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in my head. She, on the other hand, loves that answer. Of course she does. Women always love the quiet ones because they mistake silence for depth.
Sometimes it is depth, and sometimes it is just a man who doesn’t know how to use his words unless he’s criticizing your oil change schedule.
“Can we get extra chamoy?” she asks him.
“I don’t make them,” Fabián says, and then he points at me without looking.
The woman turns, and her eyes flick over me, my glasses, my earrings, and my shorts. Her smile gets playful. “You make them?”
“I make everything better,” I say automatically.
Fabián makes a sound beside me, and I can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a groan.
I look at him, and he looks at the payment screen like it insulted his tía. The woman looks between us and grins.
Great.
The night blurs into sugar and noise after that. I make raspado after raspado until my wrists ache. Fabián handles payments, refills ice, keeps the table stocked, and tells people the price without blinking when they try to haggle.
He’s good at being intimidating. I’m good at being charming. Together, unfortunately, we’re efficient.
Also, people keep watching us.
I can feel it.
Every time we argue, someone smiles. Every time Fabián reaches over me for a stack of lids, someone whispers. Every time I call him “tough guy,” his jaw tightens, and the comments from this morning replay in my head.
“The crop top one and the glasses one need to kiss already.”
Stupid internet, stupid fucking people putting ideas in my head.
Around ten, the line finally thins, and my mom disappears with his tía to “look at the other booths,” which is code for chisme time. Anita leaves early to get my niece to bed, but not before whispering, “Don’t get pregnant,” in my ear.
I tell her to go to hell, and she just kisses my cheek.
Families are curses with matching blood types.
Fabián and I end up alone behind the booth for the first time all night.
Not alone alone. There are vendors nearby, customers walking around, and loud music still playing. But alone enough.