4. Elías #2
What would happen if I put my hands under that crop top and my thumbs brushed over his hard nipples?
My body heats in a hard rush.
“No,” I whisper to myself. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
The pantry door opens; I scream and almost throw my phone. Anita stands there holding a roll of price stickers, Fatima strapped to her chest, watching me with big baby eyes like even she knows her tío has lost his damn mind.
We all stare at each other, and my sister’s eyes drop to my face. Then to where I’m pressed against the shelf like a haunted slut. Then back up.
“Oh. My. God,” she says. “No mames güey.”
I point at her. “Don’t.”
“Mi hermanito… you’re hiding in the pantry,” She chuckles. “You came out of the closet years ago so why are you trying to crawl back in?”
“I’m checking inventory.” Even though I have no clipboard.
“You look like inventory checked you back in.”
“You know… Mom should have swallowed you.” I cover my niece’s eyes and flip her off.
“Like I haven’t heard worse.” She gives me the finger back. “So you’re sexting him or what?”
I bend and kiss Fatima’s head and groan. “No, I’m not sexting him.”
“Booooring.” She pushes past me and grabs a stack of cups. “I for real though thought something was happening because you look like someone just whispered ‘good boy’ in your ear, and you’re trying to pretend you didn’t like it.”
My face goes hot. “Get out.”
She gasps and presses a hand to Fatima’s back. “You do like that?”
“Anita.”
“Does Fabián know?”
I hold up a finger to her. “I will tell Julio you called him illiterate again.”
That only makes her laugh. “He knows he is illiterate. The pendejo has a tattoo that says Antia.”
I point at the door. “Out.”
She points both sticker rolls at me. “Fine. But I’m watching you.”
Anita leaves, laughing, and just like her mother, Fatima laughs too.
Betrayal is genetic, apparently.
I stand there for another second, trying to remember my own name. My phone buzzes again.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
You got quiet.
I laugh once, and it comes out soft—I’m completely fucked.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Sorry.
Had to go scream into dry storage for a sec.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Dramatic.
Lalo.Con.Limón
You admitted something first.
I needed a minute.
Excuse me for thinking we were sworn to be mortal enemies.
The bubbles appear, but this time they stay longer.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Don’t make it weird.
I smile. Aw, scared little tough guy.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Too late.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Lalo.
My name on the screen makes my stomach drop.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Fabián *insert serious face*
No response for a few seconds.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
So… umm… are you working tomorrow?
I roll my head back against the shelf because he knows I am.
He knows.
He just wants me to say it.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Yeah
You?
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
I was thinking I would.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Gonna wear another crop top?
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Maybe.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Slut.
I send it before I can stop myself, and the moment it goes through, I bite my lip hard enough to hurt.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Takes one to know one.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Oh…
?Eso te prende, papi de crop top?
His reply is immediate.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Maybe.
One word again.
Maybe.
This man is going to kill me with these almost-statements.
I want him to ruin me like bad credit. I want to run my tongue down his perfect stomach and get on my knees for him, to make him say something without hiding inside dry little answers.
My thumbs move fast across the keyboard.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Maybe you want me to wear the tiny shorts too.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Those are your normal shorts.
I laugh.
Lalo.Con.Limón
So you noticed.
The pause is beautiful.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Everyone noticed, Lalo.
Lalo.Con.Limón
But did you?
Another pause, this one longer, so naturally I stand there holding my breath like an idiot.
Fabi.Sin Filtro
Yes.
My whole body goes hot and smug until the pantry door opens again and I shove the phone against my chest. My mom stands there this time, and I almost die on the spot.
She frowns at me. “?Qué haces?”
“Nothing, just… doing inventory.”
She looks at the shelf beside my head. “With your phone”
“Yes.”
“So you’re telling me you have been counting napkins for ten minutes?” She stares at me, and I know she sees right through me.
“They keep getting stuck together.”
Her eyes narrow, and I straighten. She still doesn’t look convinced. Mothers never do. They do not need evidence because they were born with search warrants.
“Come help with the syrups,” she says.
“I’m coming,” I mumble, and her eyebrows lift.
I hear it.
I hear exactly how that sounded.
I close my eyes, and my mom’s mouth twitches.
“No empieces,” I warn.
“I didn’t say anything.” She laughs and leaves me in the pantry with my dignity in a bag by the door. I look down at my phone, and there’s a new message waiting.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Just don’t wear the red ones.
My brows pull together—why the fuck not?
Lalo.Con.Limón
Why not?
Fabi.Son.Filtro
They’re annoying.
Lalo.Con.Limón
They’re shorts…
How are shorts annoying?
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
They make you more annoying.
I grin.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Mentiroso.
I bet you like those best, and this is some reverse psychology bullshit.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Reaching much?
You’re impossible, you know that?
Lalo.Con.Limón
And yet you’re still texting me.
For a second, I think I pushed him back into his shell because he doesn’t answer.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Yeah, I guess I am.
He keeps doing this, throwing me a little truth into the middle of the jokes like he thinks I won’t notice if he tosses it fast enough. But I notice everything about him now.
That’s inconvenient.
I go back out to help with prep before someone calls a priest. The afternoon drips by, slow and sticky.
We bottle syrups, prep fruit, and wash containers.
I’m ordered to load supplies in the trailer for tomorrow while Mom hums along to old Juan Gabriel songs.
Anita keeps side-eyeing me like I am a telenovela she plans to recap at dinner.
All the while, my phone stays in my pocket, and every buzz hits my thigh like a secret touch that I wish was real.
I’m home by six, showered, and standing in front of my closet wearing nothing but some bright orange boxer briefs and my glasses while I decide how stupid I’m willing to be tomorrow.
Very, apparently.
My room is small, but it’s mine. A fan rattles in the corner, and my bed sits half-made.
A stack of clean clothes sits in the chair because folding is one thing; putting them away is another.
On the dresser, my silver rings and earrings sit in a little ceramic dish shaped like a lime because Anita thought she was funny.
I pick up the red shorts and hold them up.
They are short.
Fine. They are very short, but they make my thighs look good, and I am not responsible for how other people process that information.
I toss them on the bed.
Then I grab a pair of black ones, the same ones from last weekend. Four-inch inseam. Worn soft. I stare at them, and my phone buzzes. As if by some kind of slut brujería, I already know who it is.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
u home?
Yep… alone in my room like a loser.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Yes. Are you?
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
I just walked in the door. I could kill for a carne asada burrito and a shower.
Lalo.Con.Limón
It does sound pretty good.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
But I’m way too lazy to go around the corner to el puesto.
I sit on the edge of the bed, shorts in one hand, phone in the other.
Lalo.Con.Limón
So you’d rather starve than go eat?
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
I’m sure I've got something in the fridge. My tía likes to drop stuff off while I’m at work. As if I’m not a fully functioning 28-year-old.
I stare at that for too long. These are the most words he’s ever typed out to me. It’s like we’re actually talking, having a real ass conversation.
Lalo.Con.Limón
You could get one delivered. Those apps do exist, you know.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Yeah, I’m not paying $75 to have a burrito delivered when I can walk a block and get one.
Ugh, fine. I’ll go.
What did you eat for dinner?
Him asking that shouldn’t do anything to me, but it totally does.
Lalo.Con.Limón
In typical Mexican mom fashion… on this lovely 98-degree day… I had albóndigas.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Lucky.
Lalo.Con.Limón
You want me to bring you some? She has a huge pot full.
No…. I shouldn’t have sent that. Except maybe I meant it.
Except I mean it. I’d bring him some soup. Probably make a joke about balls somewhere in there, but I’d bring it.
The room goes silent around me, and even the fan seems to pause.
The bubbles appear, and my throat gets tight.
Please don’t tell me to fuck off.
Then my phone rings, and it’s a video call from Instagram. I drop back onto my bed and stare at it wide-eyed.
I shouldn’t answer; not only am I only in my underwear, but my hair’s still damp from the shower.
My room is a disaster. I have one pair of black shorts in my hand and the red pair on the floor because apparently I’m auditioning outfits for a man who is one dry text away from becoming my cause of death.
Now he is calling me—video calling me.
Fabián Salcedo, who texts like a hostage blinking in Morse code, has decided to put his face on my phone. I stare at the screen until it nearly stops ringing. Then I panic and answer, and the first thing I see is his ceiling.
Then part of his jaw while his hand covers half the camera while he mutters, “Shit.”
I bite back a laugh. “You video called me and don’t know how to hold the phone?”
The camera shifts, and then there he is.
Fabián.
Fresh from the shower, hair damp, peach-fuzz head catching the warm light from wherever he is in his apartment.
He’s wearing a white tank instead of a crop top, which should be less offensive but somehow isn’t.
His silver hoops are still in, but his chain’s gone.
His shoulders look unfair and his face even more so because he is not scowling all the way.
Only halfway.
Progress.
His eyes move over the screen, and then his expression freezes.
I remember, too late, that I am lying on my bed in bright orange boxer briefs and glasses.
His eyes flick down, then back up again, slowly.