4. Elías
FOUR
ELíAS
Fabián Salcedo has been in my DMs for three days, and I’m handling it with dignity. When I say “dignity,” I mean since I got to work, I’ve checked my phone six times in the past ten minutes, and Anita just threatened to drown it in a container of chamoy.
It’s a small problem.
Tiny.
Manageable.
Barely worth mentioning.
Who the fuck am I kidding? This is unacceptable, embarrassing even. The kind of personal failure that makes me want to throw my phone into the Bay and pretend I never learned how to read.
I’m supposed to find him irritating. I’m supposed to hate that little gray bubble that pops up under his name. And I’m supposed to roll my eyes when he sends me a dry, rude, emotionally constipated response to something charming and generous I said first.
Instead, I’m standing behind the counter of our family’s prep kitchen, slicing mango, waiting for him to answer my last message like some tragic Victorian widow with slutty glasses and a knife.
The mango did nothing to deserve this.
It sits on the cutting board, innocent and yellow, minding its own business, while I stab at it like it personally told Fabián to leave me on read.
My mom looks up from where she is filling squeeze bottles with chamoy. “Elías.”
“Hmm,” I mumble.
“You’re murdering the mango, mijo.”
I mumble under my breath about it being the reason he won’t grow a pair and message me back. “It knew what it did.”
Anita snorts from the other end of the counter, where she’s labeling syrup bottles with her daughter strapped to her chest in a little floral carrier.
Fatima, the adorable traitor that she is, giggles.
I point the knife at both of them, a piece of mango at the tip.
Anita lifts one hand. “Don’t threaten my baby with fruit.”
“She laughed at me.”
“She’s seven months old, cabrón.” She sighs. “She laughs at everything.”
Fatima blows a spit bubble.
Rude.
Anita leans over the counter and glances at my phone, and I flip it over so fast the wet mango slips under my fingers.
Her eyebrows climb. “Oh?”
“No.”
“All I said was ‘oh.’” She says, giving me a devious little smirk.
“You made a face.”
She smiles like a woman who’s enjoying the downfall of her brother’s love life. “Is it Fabián?”
I point the knife again, and she points to the knife. “You’re holding fruit. I’m not scared.”
“You should be. I’m unpredictable.” I growl playfully.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Loud as hell.
Anita’s smile widens until it becomes a whole damn lawsuit. I look at her and she looks at me. The phone buzzes again.
This motherfucker would message back at the most inconvenient time. She reaches like she’s going for it, so I snatch it up before she can.
@fabi.sin.filtro has sent a message.
My pulse does a stupid little kick.
Not because I care—caring would be insane. This is purely for curiosity sake. Entertainment to make the week go by faster. A safety concern, probably.
I open it.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Your cousin brought his car in.
I stare at the message and my pulse thrums. Which is so fucking stupid, because the message is about a car. It’s probably Ricky’s car because God loves reruns.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Which cousin?
I have like 47.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
The loud one.
I snort.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Still gonna need you to narrow that down.
He takes a few moments to respond, and I hate how much I like watching the little dots dance across his side of the chat.
Ugh… gross. Feelings.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Ricky.
Of course.
Lalo.Con.Limón
lmao
Is he still mad about the dent?
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
The dent was there before I beat the shit out of that culero.
I laugh out loud, and Anita makes a sound like she has just found treasure under floorboards.
I glare at her. “What?”
“You laughed at your phone.” She does a stupid little shimmy and slides closer to me in the prep space.
“I laugh all the time.”
“Nuh uh,” she teases. “You laugh at people but not like that.”
“Like what?” I say, looking her dead in the face.
“All ugly and soft.”
I gasp. “Bitch, did you just say ugly?”
“That’s the word you heard?” She rolls her eyes and then moves back to her prep area.
I turn my back on her and respond to Fabián.
Lalo.Con.Limón
You used a man for bodywork and still refuse to take accountability.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
He swung first. I just made sure to finish it.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Yeah, with Rickey’s bumper.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Tell Ricky to buy better bumpers.
I bite my lip. Hard. No, that’s not funny enough to make me smile like this, and yet here I am, smiling at my phone like an idiot while my sister gathers evidence for my eventual public execution.
Another message pops up.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
He asked if you were working Friday.
My stomach flips.
I do not like that.
Not the flip itself. The flip is fine because this is interesting. There’s potential even if everything plays out like the wet dream I had last night. I just don’t like that my body flipped before my brain signed off on it.
I type carefully.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Why?
He miss me?
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
No.
I think he wants to avoid you.
I roll my eyes.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Coward behavior
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Seems to run in your family.
My mouth drops open.
“Rude ass,” I mutter.
Anita perks up. “What did he say?”
“Nothing.” And I go back to typing.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Cute
You been sitting on that one all morning?
The response takes longer this time. Long enough for my head to start filling the silence with garbage. Maybe I pushed too hard? Maybe he is busy? Or threw his phone under a car again because feelings made eye contact with him.
Maybe he hates that I called him cute.
Then his message appears.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Don’t call me cute
My whole body grins before my mouth does.
Danger.
Beautiful danger.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Why not?
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Because I’m not.
I look around the prep kitchen like there might be someone nearby willing to confirm I’m not insane. Unfortunately, there is only Anita, who is absolutely not a safe person for this problem.
Is this man serious?
Lalo.Con.Limón
You wear crop tops to work…
and get mad when people notice.
That’s cute.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
It’s practical
Lalo.Con.Limón
Your stomach needs ventilation?
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Yes
Lalo.Con.Limón
Your happy trail too?
The second I send it, I want to snatch the words back.
Anita watches my face change. “What did you say?”
“Mind your business and your baby.”
“Elías—”
The bubbles under Fabián’s name appear, and I hold up a finger to her, and she scoffs. Muttering to my niece about what an asshole her uncle can be.
He’s taking way too long to respond.
Oh, I hit him.
Good.
Good good good.
My chest gets warm, and my stomach too.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
You worried about my happy trail now?
I set the knife down, carefully. Like it might become part of a crime scene if I keep holding it.
Anita leans closer. “Oh, that face is nasty.”
“Stop looking at my face.” I move away from the counter and head into the walk-in pantry, because I’m a grown man who needs his privacy when he’s about to be stupid.
It is cooler in here, thank God. Shelves line both walls, packed with cups, lids, straws, syrup jugs, extra napkins, candy, bulk Tajín, condensed milk, and the giant tubs of chamoy my mom treats like family heirlooms. I shut the door behind me but not all the way.
I’m not that dramatic.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
Lalo.Con.Limón
I’m worried about public safety.
People see that little trail and forget how to act.
His reply comes fast enough that I know he was waiting.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
People?
I stare at that one word.
People.
Not you? That’s what he means. Fabián Salcedo, crop-top hypocrite, is trying to make me say it.
I laugh under my breath, and I’m surprised at how shaky it comes out.
The sexual tension between us stopped being background noise sometime after he followed me on Instagram and became a live electrical wire wrapped around my neck.
Lalo.Con.Limón
You fishing for compliments, Salcedo?
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Answer the question.
I swallow.
My tongue ring clicks against my teeth.
I press my back against the shelves and type before I can think better of it.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Fine…
I see it and forget how to act.
The message is sent, and my heart starts beating faster.
And there’s nothing—no bubbles, no reply.
I stare at the screen, and ten seconds go by.
Twenty.
Thirty.
“Fucking coward,” I whisper, but my voice doesn’t land right.
Maybe it’s me that’s the coward. Maybe this was all funnier when it was comments and jokes and him looking at my mouth like he wanted to argue.
But now it’s Thursday, and tomorrow I have to see him again.
In person, under the market lights with our families five feet away and my body acting like it signed up for something my brain has not approved.
My phone buzzes.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Good.
One word.
That’s all.
Good.
I read it three times, and every time my skin prickles. The pantry suddenly feels too small.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Good?
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Yeah.
Now I know it’s not just me.
I stop breathing, and I wait for the punchline. No joke comes. That is rare enough that it should be reported. I stare at the screen, tongue pressed behind my teeth, heart beating way too fast for a weekday afternoon surrounded by paper goods.
Not just me.
He said that. Fabián, who communicates like every word costs him a piece of his soul, just admitted there is something between us.
Enough to make my mind flash back to his thumb at the corner of my mouth. The rough slide of it over my skin and way he looked at the syrup before wiping it away.
The way he called me a coward and the way he stepped closer when I dared him. I close my eyes for one second.
Bad choice.
Immediately, I picture him in his shop bathroom. Fabián in that gray crop top from Junior’s story. Grease all over him. Dickies low. Pierced ears, nipples, and God help me, maybe other places I don’t need to be fantasizing about at two in the afternoon in my family’s pantry.
Except I do need to know. I want to know too much.
Where else silver catches on him?
What his face looks like when he stops scowling.