3. Fabián
THREE
FABIáN
On Monday morning, I make a decision. A mature decision, a responsible decision. One that proves I am a grown man with self-control, common sense, and the ability to move on from inconvenient thoughts.
I’m not going to think about Elías Cárdenas.
Not his mouth or that tempting little tongue ring of his.
Not his criminally short shorts and his adorable glasses.
And certainly not the way he looked at me in the parking lot Saturday night like he knew exactly how close I was to doing something stupid and wanted to see if I’d survive it.
I am especially not going to think about the way he said, “Maybe you’re too scared,” like he was handing me a match in a room full of gasoline.
What if I am scared?
No, stop it. I have work to do.
I have responsibilities, like the 2012 Nissan Altima in bay two making a sound that should probably be reported to the church.
I have a customer arguing that her brake pads “should still be good” because she replaced them three years ago.
Then I have a Tío pretending he doesn’t know where he left the shop tablet even though it is always in the same place.
I don’t have time for whatever the fuck this is.
This is heat.
This is stress.
This is summer market fumes and too much tamarindo syrup and the fact that Elías wears shorts like he is legally forbidden from owning more fabric.
I am fine.
I am very fine.
Underneath the Altima, with my wrench in hand, I’m telling myself exactly how fine I am when my phone buzzes against the concrete beside my head.
I ignore it, and it buzzes again.
Third buzz, then a fourth, and when I glance over, it’s my cousin Junior’s name lighting up my screen with a text preview.
Junior
NO MAMES, brO.
I close my eyes because nothing good has ever followed those words when they come from Junior. My phone keeps buzzing, so I slide out from under the Altima on the creeper and grab it with the same enthusiasm I would use to pick up a dead rat.
Junior has sent seven messages and a link to a video.
Junior
NO MAMES, brO.
Ay, Cabrón, tú eres el mero rey de los crop tops.
Don’t get mad.
Actually, you’re gonna get mad.
But like in a hot way apparently.
Also, why did u skip yesterday?
Elías looked like someone pissed in his frijoles.
I did skip Sunday, but it wasn’t because of Elías. The shop right now is maxed out, and my tío needed my help more than tía. I may have also decided a day away from the Bahía Nights Summer Market would be good for my health.
That’s not cowardice.
It’s more like preventative maintenance.
I open the link Junior sent, and it’s an immediate mistake.
It’s a TikTok.
Of course it’s a fucking TikTok.
The video starts with me and Elías behind the booth Saturday night. Not the whole booth, just us, cropped tight. Music plays over it—some stupid trending sound with a dramatic bass drop.
I’m standing at the register in my black crop top, jaw tight, arms crossed. Elías is beside me, glasses low on his nose, in tiny shorts and a silver chain, talking with his hands like the whole world has been waiting for his opinion on mango syrup.
Text floats across the screen.
WHEN THE RASPADO STAND COMES WITH FREE ENEMIES-TO-LOVERS ENTERTAINMENT,
The clip cuts to Elías saying something I can’t hear over the music. Then it’s me scowling, Elías laughing, and me just looking at him.
Not normal looking either.
Looking, looking.
My stomach drops, and that’s when the video zooms in on my face. More text appears.
HE WANTS HIM SO BAD IT’S EMBARRASSING
“No,” I say to my phone, practically begging this video to be some kind of prank.
The video cuts again, and this time Elías licks syrup off his thumb while I’m in the background, watching him. Fucking creeping on him like a man who’s never seen a tongue ring before.
Then the video freezes on my face.
My dead, thirsty, apparently very public face.
The caption reads: crop top papi fighting for his life at the raspado stand @ Bahía Nights Summer Market off East 14th/Washington Ave.
I throw my phone onto the creeper, and it bounces once, the screen still playing while the audio loops. Elías laughs again, and my whole body goes hot.
Not because I am embarrassed. I mean, yes, because I am embarrassed…
because the video caught it. The thing I have been pretending is not there.
It caught my eyes dragging over him. It caught my jaw tightening.
It caught the exact second my brain left my body and went to hell wearing a slutty crop top.
Junior texts again.
Junior
Comments are wild lmao
I really shouldn’t look—a smart man wouldn’t look. A man with dignity would delete the app, turn his phone off, return to the Altima, and go on with his day.
Let’s be so fucking for real though, I’m far from a smart man… or one with a modicum of dignity. I tap the comments.
The crop top one has never known peace.
Glasses knows EXACTLY what he’s doing.
This is what my abuela means when she says “se gustan.”
I need someone to write a whole series.
Why is this hotter than half the romance books I read?
Not him staring at that man’s mouth like it owes him rent.
That man is one tongue ring away from ruining his own life.
I lock the phone and set it face down. Walk three steps away, then promptly walk three steps back. Pick it up again and unlock it.
Watch the video one more time.
Not because I want to but because I need to inspect evidence.
That’s different; I need to know how bad it is.
It is bad.
It is worse the second time, because I notice the camera catches Elías looking at me too.
People in the comments missed that. They’re too busy making jokes about me, but I see it.
I see the way his eyes drop when I reach over him for lids.
I see the way he smiles when I look away and the way he watches my hands when I wipe down the table.
Something tightens behind my ribs, then lower.
No.
We’re not doing this. I lock the phone again.
Nope, and I slide back under the Altima and reach for the wrench.
Work.
I do work.
I am good at work.
Engines make sense. Parts either fit or they don’t. A leak can be traced, and a bad belt can be replaced. A stripped bolt is a pain in the ass, but it has a solution.
This doesn’t have a solution.
This is just me, under a Nissan, trying not to think about whether Elías watched that video too. Trying not to think about him laughing at the comments, about him saving it. Definitely trying not to think about him sending it to his sister with that stupid smile on his stupid pretty face.
Wait, not pretty face.
Fuck.
Trying not to think about his tongue ring tapping against his teeth while he reads, “one tongue ring away from ruining his own life.”
My wrench slips.
“Chinga tu madre,” I curse. My knuckles hit metal, and pain snaps sharp through my hand.
Good.
Great.
Fucking awesome. I can understand pain—pain makes more fucking sense than this shitshow.
I’m never being volunteered for anything ever again. My tío appears above me, holding a coffee and wearing the expression of a man about to become a problem.
“You okay?” he asks, giving me a once-over.
“Fine.”
He looks at my hand. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s not that bad.” I huff, rolling my eyes as I search my tool cart for a semi-clean towel.
“You’re distracted.” He shakes his head.
“I’m not.” I grimace as I press the cleanest piece of cloth I can find to my busted knuckle.
“You almost put coolant in the windshield fluid earlier.” He stares.
“That bottle was mislabeled,” I stare back. “and on the wrong shelf.”
He sips his coffee. “This about the market?”
“No,” I snap.
“That was a fast no.” He chuckles, then takes another sip. “You know, your tía saw some video… on the Tak Tak app.”
My entire soul leaves my body. Slowly, like it’s just accepted death. “What video?”
My tío gives me a look so disappointed it could make a parking ticket weep. “Don’t act stupid. You’re not so good at it.”
“There are a lot of videos.” I shrug.
“Of you and Elías.”
I say nothing, because that feels like the safest bet. Why further incriminate myself?
He nods like my silence confessed to three crimes. “She says you looked handsome.”
“Okay.”
He keeps going. “She says Elías looked handsome too.”
“I really don’t give a shit if he looks any type of way.”
“She says you both have a nice… ?Cómo se dice… chemistry?”
I sit up so fast my shoulder hits the Altima. “Chemistry?” I squeak, and my tío’s mouth twitches.
I point at him with the wrench. “Don’t.”
“I say nothing.” He laughs and walks back toward the front desk.
I sit on the creeper, breathing through my nose like a normal person.
Normal.
Normal.
Normal.
What the fuck is normal in this situation?
My phone buzzes again, and this time it is not Junior.
It is Anita.
Elías’s sister. It’s been a while since she’s texted me, but we’ve all known each other since high school and have chilled on-and-off over the years…
prior to the beef… which is how I know she’s got blackmail on half the East Bay.
Also, Bay Area Mexican-American communities are basically one giant group chat with carne asada smoke.
So the fact that she’s texting me makes me nervous.
Anita
I hope you know he’s been quiet all morning. That never happens.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
Fuck.
I should block everyone and move to Nevada and fix slot machines under a false name. Before I can decide, another message comes in from her.
Anita
Whatever you did, thank you.
Then it all kinda dawns on me.
Elías.
Quiet.
Because of me?
A hot, stupid ribbon of satisfaction pulls through me.
Then panic punches it in the throat.
Fabián
Wrong number.
Delete it.
Fabián
Tell him to stay quiet forever.
Delete it.
Put the phone down, then pick the phone back up to do the one thing I know I shouldn’t—open Instagram.
I don’t know why I do it. That’s a lie. I know exactly why. My fingers move before my brain can stop them. In the search bar I type “Elías Cárdenas”—too many people. Delete and search “Lalo Cárdenas.” Still too many people.
Duh, dumbass… search the family business.