9. Fabián
NINE
FABIáN
The worst part is that Elías gives me exactly what I asked for.
Space.
Time.
Room to figure my shit out.
I should appreciate that. A mature man would appreciate that.
A stable man would look at the situation and say, Wow, that is very considerate of him. How thoughtful. How emotionally responsible. How kind of Elías Cárdenas to not push me after I admitted I’m one stiff breeze away from a full identity crisis in front of God and my tía.
I’m not that man.
No, I’m a man standing in the parking lot of Bahía Nights Summer Market on Sunday evening, watching Elías laugh with a customer like his mouth didn’t spend last night wrecking every part of my life, and I hate the space.
I hate it.
I asked for time, and now suddenly time seems like a curse.
He is wearing red shorts tonight.
Red.
Not black.
Red shorts. Hickeys still visible but faded at the edges, purple blooming under the gold-orange sunset like a sign I put up and now don’t know how to stand under.
He looks good.
Annoyingly good. Like God made him and then immediately said, My bad, this one’s going to ruin somebody.
Probably me.
Definitely me.
I close my truck door and stand there for an extra second, trying to put my face back together before I walk toward the booth.
Good luck with that, pendejo.
You’re fucked and you know it.
Junior spots me first because apparently uselessness comes with excellent peripheral vision. He is sitting on a cooler near the back of the booth, one crutch propped beside him, eating an elote like he’s never in his life been asked to contribute to society.
He looks at me, then looks at Elías.
Then he looks back at me, and his grin starts slow.
“No,” I say before he can open his mouth.
“I didn’t say nothing.”
“Keep doing that,” I grumble.
His grin widens. “You’re sensitive today.”
“I will throw you into traffic.”
“With my ankle?” He fakes a gasp. “That’s cruel, primo.”
“Trust me, people will thank me for it.”
Elías hears my voice, and his shoulders shift. My whole body expects the usual.
A smirk.
A lazy little “crop top.”
A look down my body like he has decided to make my blood pressure his personal hobby.
Instead, he turns with a polite smile.
Polite.
Like a customer service representative, a stranger with good manners.
Like he didn’t have his legs locked around my waist less than twenty-four hours ago while I came inside him.
“Hey,” he says.
Hey.
That’s it.
No papi.
No Salcedo.
No “you look like you’re about to fight your own feelings again.”
Just hey.
I hate it so much my molars ache.
“Hey,” I say back, because apparently I have also lost all language skills. His gaze flicks over me once.
Quick.
I wore a black crop top tonight. The one with the hem that sits higher than it should. Silver chain, earrings, rings. I didn’t dress for him; I dressed because it is hot and because I have always made excellent choices with terrible consequences.
Fine. I dressed for him.
And he looks for half a second like he barely even notices.
Then he looks away and I think that’s worse than staring.
My chest pulls tight.
Good.
Fine.
This is what I asked for.
Space.
Time.
A fucking emotional waiting room with bad lighting.
The booth is already busy, but not Saturday-busy. Sunday has a different flavor. It’s less feral and more family-oriented. More abuelas with exact opinions about condensed milk. More people coming for the food instead of the drama, although a few phones still lift when they see us together.
The videos from last night have already spread. I know because Junior sent me six before noon and then texted this:
Junior
Broooooooo
They zoomed in on Lalo’s hickey.
The comments are insane.
One person said, “Crop top papi marked his territory.”
Did you?????
Asking for science, not that I care if you like guys.
I didn’t answer.
Then he sent one more.
Junior
Silence is a confession, cabrón.
Now I stand at the register, taking payments while Elías works beside me without touching me.
Not once.
He reaches around me without brushing my arm.
He says “excuse me” without adding papi.
He bends for cups like a normal person instead of trying to kill me with his thighs.
He laughs with customers, but not too much. Flirts, but lightly. Safe, sparkly, and public-friendly.
Not the way he flirted yesterday, all teeth and gasoline.
Not the way he flirted with me before I gave him something to protect.
I thought I wanted that.
I thought I wanted him to be careful with whatever this is with us in public. Now I want to throw the tablet.
A woman orders two strawberry-lechera raspados and looks between us with bright, hopeful eyes.
“Are you two the ones from TikTok?” she asks.
Elías smiles. “Depends on which one’s TikTok you mean.”
“The arguing ones.”
“That narrows it down less than you think.”
She laughs and points at me. “You’re Crop Top Papi, right?”
I stare at her, and Elías coughs into his hand. Junior makes a wounded animal sound from the cooler. My tía, sitting at the back table counting bills, says without looking up, “He is not answering to that.”
I say, “No.”
The woman’s friend says, “You kind of are, though.”
Elías turns away to hide his smile.
There I see it. A little crack in the polite facade.
I lean closer under the noise. “Something funny?”
His eyes flick to mine.
For a second, last night is there.
Sweat, skin, and his perfect mouth on mine.
Then he blinks it away.
“Lots of things,” he says.
Then he hands the customer her raspado.
Not me—the customer.
I grit my teeth and mumble under my breath. “It’s gonna be a long fucking night.”
By seven, I decide I’m done being mature.
Maturity is boring.
Maturity tastes like cardboard and church guilt.
Elías is at the back table, restocking lids. I move beside him and grab the stack he is reaching for before he can. His fingers stop short and he clears his throat.
“Needed those,” he says.
“You can ask.”
His brow lifts. “For lids?”
“For whatever you want.”
His eyes sharpen. Then his mouth curves, but not enough. “That your attempt at flirting?”
My confidence, a fragile animal with no survival skills, trips over a rock. “Yes.”
He stares at me, then laughs softly.
Not in a cruel way. It’s more fond than anything.
“I’m serious,” I mutter.
“I know. That’s why it’s funny.”
I shove the lids at him. “You look good.”
He freezes and so do I. The words sit there between us, stupid and naked.
His face changes, and it is small.
A flicker.
Hurt getting confused by want.
“That sounded painful for you,” he says.
“It was.”
“You need a sticker?”
“I need you to stop being weird.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m being weird?”
“Yes.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
He sets the lids down too carefully. “I’m giving you time.”
“I didn’t ask you to stop talking to me.”
“You asked for time.”
“I asked to figure out what I’m comfortable with people knowing.”
“Yeah.” His voice drops. “And I’m a person.”
That hits, and before I can answer, someone at the counter calls, “Can I get a mango with extra chamoy?”
Elías steps away.
Just like that, the conversation’s over.
I stand there with my hands flexing at my sides and the whole market roaring around me, trying not to feel like I just lost something I only got to hold for one night.
The night keeps moving because the night market does not care about my emotional damage. Orders come fast enough to keep my hands busy, but not my head. My head keeps replaying his voice.
And I’m a person.
Like I made him part of the crowd.
Like I made him one more person I have to manage. I didn’t mean to, and that’s the problem. I keep not meaning to hurt him and doing it anyway.
I catch him looking at me twice, and both times, he looks away first.
I hate that too.
So I try harder.
Badly.
A guy in a sleeveless shirt comes to the counter and asks Elías for the best flavor. I step in before Elías can answer.
“Tamarindo,” I say.
The guy blinks at me. “Oh. Okay.”
Elías looks at me. “He asked me.”
“I heard.” I smirk at the guy.
“You don’t even like tamarindo.”
“It’s a popular flavor.”
“It’s sour,” he snaps.
“So are you.”
His mouth twitches. I’m calling that one a win.
Tiny.
Ridiculous.
Mine.
The guy laughs. “Is this the part where you two argue?”
Elías opens his mouth and I beat him to it.
“No.”
The guy grins. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Elías hands him the raspado. “He gets cranky when it’s hot out.”
I lean closer to Elías. “I get cranky when people ignore me.”
His hand stills on the spoon, and he looks up.
Direct, with no joke and no smirk, he says, “Then stop asking for space you don’t know what to do with.”
My chest tightens, and the guy at the counter goes silent.
Behind us, Junior whispers, “Damn.”
I turn my head. “Shut up.”
Junior raises both hands.
Elías turns back to the line. “Next.”
No papi.
No smile.
Nothing.
It gets worse because now I know he’s definitely not fine. Now I can see it under the politeness. I can see how hard he is holding himself back. Elías is a man built out of impulse, mouth, flirtation, spark, and heat. He is not quiet unless he is trying not to bleed.
And tonight, he’s quiet with me.
I did that.
At eight-thirty, the line has grown again because someone posted that we were both working tonight. Phones are out, and while it’s not as many as on Saturday, it’s enough that my skin feels too tight.
Someone asks for a picture with us and I say no.
Elías says, “Sure.”
I look at him, and he shrugs without looking back.
The girl wedges herself between us, smiling huge while her friend holds the phone.
Elías throws an arm around her shoulder because he is friendly, easy, and comfortable in his body.
I stand on her other side like I am being held hostage by community engagement.
“Smile,” the friend says.
I don’t smile.
Elías leans in and says under his breath, “You look like you’re taking a mugshot.”
I keep my eyes on the camera. “You look like you enjoy strangers touching you.”
His smile stays fixed and his voice stays sweet. “Careful, Salcedo.”
A warning.
From him.