6. Elías
SIX
ELíAS
Whoever called hickeys “love bites” apparently has never seen the ones that Fabián leaves behind. These motherfuckers don’t scream “love.”
They’re bold, purple marks that serve one purpose.
A big neon sign that says “Fabián was here… don’t touch.”
They say, “Hey, remember how you let Fabián Salcedo shove you against a trailer last night and kiss you like he was trying to argue with your soul?”
Yep, I remember.
My body remembers too.
My mouth remembers.
My hips definitely remember, because every time I move, I can still feel the ghost of his hands, the way his thigh pressed between mine, and the hard line of his dick against me.
I stand in front of my bathroom mirror Saturday afternoon, tilting my head to the side and staring at the marks blooming near my throat.
It is not subtle.
Nothing about last night was subtle.
I poke it, and it hurts a little.
I smile, then immediately stop because smiling at a hickey from Fabián Salcedo is pathetic behavior, and I do in fact have some standards.
Not many, but some.
The bathroom door swings open without warning, and I jump when my sister barrels in. “Ocupado!”
My sister leans against the wall with Fatima on her hip, already grinning like she heard my dignity hit the floor from three rooms away.
“What?” she asks. “You live in a house with other people. Lock the door if you’re doing crimes.”
“I’m not doing crimes,” I whisper. Then her eyes drop to my neck.
Then widen. “Oh my God.”
“No.” I hold up a finger as she starts toward me.
“But Elías—”
“I said don’t.”
“Oh my God.” She smirks.
I point at her. “You already used your three ‘oh my Gods’ yesterday.”
She steps closer, Fatima reaching for the towel hanging near the sink. “Are those hickeys?”
“It’s a rash,” I say, clearing my throat.
“On your neck?”
“Yes,” I say.
“In the shape of a mouth?” She raises her brow.
“I have sensitive skin.”
Anita rolls her eyes and says, “You have sensitive judgment.”
Fatima grabs at my glasses, and I dodge the baby hand. “Control your child.”
My sister adjusts her daughter but stares at me. “She’s just trying to get a better look at tío’s bad decisions.”
“I’m going to tell Julio you said he still reads like subtitles are chasing him.”
“He knows,” she deadpans.
“I swear to God, your marriage is built on bullying.” I chuckle.
“And yours is going to be built on crop tops and denial.”
I blink. “Marriage?”
She grins wider.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Absolutely not. We’re not doing that. It was one kiss.”
“Was it?” She purses her lips and gives my neck a once over.
“One kiss,” I repeat, my voice cracking only a little.
Her eyes narrow. “Why’d you say it like a liar?”
“I said it like a man with privacy.”
“You live here,” she snorts. “You gave up your right to privacy when you moved back home.”
“It’s temporary—”
“You’ve been saying ‘temporary’ since you were twenty-four.”
Fuck, she has a point. “That’s because rent is violent in the Bay Area.”
She reaches toward my neck, and I slap her hand away. “Don’t touch it.”
“Awww. You’re protecting it?” she says with that saccharine tone that makes me want to vomit.
“No.”
Jesus fucking Christ, if this is how the day is starting, I’m going to call in sick and go back to bed.
“You like it,” she says, pushing past me into the bathroom, and starts digging through the top drawer of the vanity.
“I like when people respect boundaries,” I gasp. “Like how you should get out of the bathroom when someone’s using it.”
“Sorry, hermanito, crashing out in the bathroom because you like that Fabián put his mouth on you is not an acceptable reason to hog the bathroom.”
My face heats up, and Anita gasps like she just won bingo.
“You do,” she says. “Don’t you?”
“Get. Out.” I hiss through gritted teeth.
“Pero… are you blushing?”
Fuck my life.
“Was he any good?” She leans against the counter, waiting for me to start gossiping.
I grab a towel and throw it at her face. “We are so not having this conversation.”
She catches it with one hand while Fatima laughs like betrayal is a developmental milestone. “You know,” Anita says, backing toward the hallway, “you can use concealer.”
“Why would I do that?” I ask. “I’m not hiding it.”
Her eyebrows lift.
Fuck.
I turn back to the mirror. “I mean, I’m not wasting makeup on a rash.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Back pedal, hit that reverse. “Plus, it’s hot out. I’ll just sweat it off.”
“Sure… I believe you.” She laughs so hard Fatima starts bouncing on her hip.
“I hate this family.”
“No, you love us.” She blows me a kiss. “Mmm, you should wear the black shorts again. Maybe you’ll get to third base?”
“I was thinking of wearing a burlap sack,” I mutter.
“No, you weren’t.” She leaves before I can respond, still laughing down the hall.
I face the mirror again, and the hickey stares back at me.
Fine.
If Fabián wanted subtle, he shouldn’t have put his mouth on my neck like he was signing paperwork.
Naturally, because I’m a shit disturber, I choose a white tank, and another pair of black shorts, and silver chains because consistency matters, and my glasses because what’s the point in looking like a problem if I can’t see the look on Fabián’s face?
The hickey stays visible.
Let it.
When we finally get to Bahía Nights, the market is already a monster.
Not busy.
Straight up popping.
The parking lot is packed so tight people are parking across the street and walking over with kids, strollers, folding chairs, and the determined expressions of people who saw one TikTok and decided shaved ice was a spiritual calling.
The air’s hot and sticky, with grilled meat, kettle corn, asphalt, way too much perfume, and straight chaos.
Music thumps through the speaker system, something old school and bass-heavy that makes the tents vibrate. String lights hang overhead for when the sun eventually stops being an asshole and goes down.
And our booth has a line.
Not a regular line. A line-line.
It curves past the jewelry vendor, around the agua fresca cooler, and toward the churro cart. People are holding phones. Some of them are already filming, and my mom stares at the crowd with the horrified joy of a woman who is about to make money and lose peace.
Anita steps beside me, Fatima now with Julio, thank God. “You ready?”
“For business?” I ask.
“No, your public,” she chuckles. “You’re like some bisexual icon now.”
“Shut up.”
Someone in line points at me. “That’s him!”
Another person says, “Where’s Crop Top Papi?”
I close my eyes.
Beautiful. Terrible.
A gift from Satan dipped in chamoy.
Then I hear a truck door slam, and my skin notices before I look.
Fabián is here. Late, but here.
I turn, and he walks across the lot in a faded gray crop top, because apparently his goal is to test my cardiovascular health.
The shirt is cut high, the sleeves are gone, and his stomach is out like a threat.
Black Dickies shorts paired with old-school Vans that look like they need to see the inside of a trash can.
Silver chain with that St. Fabián pendant at his throat.
And an expression that looks carved from stone and bad coping mechanisms.
He sees the line, then his gaze pans over all the phones. Then he sees me, and his eyes go straight to my neck. To the hickeys, and he stops walking. His jaw tightens, so I do the one thing I know will make things absolutely worse.
I smile.
Slowly.
His gaze lifts to mine, but he keeps walking.
“Cárdenas,” he says when he reaches me. “Where’s my albóndigas?”
“Salcedo,” I chuckle. “Must have forgotten it… I was a little preoccupied in the bathroom this morning.”
His eyes flick to my neck again. “You didn’t cover them up.”
I adjust one of my silver chains, making sure it does absolutely nothing to hide the mark. “Cover what?”
His nostrils flare.
Lovely.
The line makes a sound.
Someone whispers, “Ohhhh, is that a hickey on his neck?”
Fabián’s face shuts down and mine lights up. Because I am a bad person, but he’s the one who put the hickey there.
Fabián walked away last night telling me he’d deny it, and now he is standing in public with the evidence on my neck and a dozen strangers doing forensic analysis in the background.
“Don’t,” he mutters.
I blink up at him. “Don’t what?”
“Feed them.”
I turn toward the line and smile. “Who wants extra chamoy?”
The line cheers, and Fabián looks at the sky like he’s asking God for patience and is getting left on read.
My mom claps once. “Enough! Everybody work.”
So we work.
Or we try to.
Orders come fast. Mango, tamarindo, strawberry-lechera, mango with extra chamoy and candy, pina with Tajín, three aguas de jamaica, two horchatas, one elote with everything, and one with no mayo because joy apparently frightens some people. Fabián takes the payments with his murder face.
The murder face makes people behave for the most part. Except tonight, people are brave.
Social media brave.
Which is the worst kind.
A girl with glossy lips and a phone asks, “Can you guys argue for my video?”
Fabián says, “No.”
I say, “Depends. What’s the topic?”
She screams and Fabián glares at me. I grin at her phone. “Make sure you get his good side.”
“I don’t have a good side,” Fabián sighs, handing her the change.
“That’s not true.” I look him over. “You got at least two.”
Someone in line makes a noise that belongs in church.
Fabián leans close under the noise. “Behave, Lalo.”
I tilt my head. “Are you asking or telling?”
His eyes drop to my mouth, and for a second, the market disappears. It’s like I can almost taste him again.
Then a man at the counter clears his throat.
Tall with broad shoulders.
Pretty.
Maybe around forty, wearing a green A’s cap, a fitted shirt, forearms out, and a smile too confident to be accidental.
“So… what do you recommend?” he asks me, leaning forward a little.
Fabián’s attention snaps to him, and I feel it like heat behind my ear.
Oh, hello, opportunity, my toxic old friend.
I lean on the counter, chin in hand. “Depends. You like sweet or spicy?”
The man's smile widens. “Both, actually.”
Fabián’s hand stills on the tablet, and I can hear his silence.