10. Elías
TEN
ELíAS
Twenty-four hours after Fabián Salcedo said, “Yes. We’re together,” in front of God, Junior, the two most important women in our lives, and at least six phones pointed directly at our personal business, I have learned three things.
One, the internet has no chill.
Two, my family has even less.
Three, Fabián has been suspiciously quiet about what his family thinks.
The first one is expected because the TikToks are everywhere now. We’re apparently no longer “the arguing raspado guys.” We have evolved. Leveled up. Entered our final marketable form.
The comments have names for us.
Crop Top Papi and Raspado Boyfriend.
Chamoy she just watched me sit down at the breakfast table this morning with the expression of a woman who had given birth to a walking scandal with good hair.
Then she set a plate of chilaquiles in front of me and said, “So. Fabián.”
I choked on a chip, and she patted my back calmly. Like she had expected my respiratory system to betray me.
“He seems serious,” she said.
I looked at her through watering eyes. “About what?”
She stared, and I ate a forkful of chilaquiles like a coward.
Then she said, “He better be.”
That was it.
That was the whole conversation. Somehow, it felt like a blessing and a threat at the same time.
Very Catholic of her.
Ricky, on the other hand, texted me at noon.
Ricky
So Crop Top is your man now?
Elías
Don’t sound so jealous.
Ricky
Tell your boyfriend he still owes my bumper an apology.
Elías
He says your bumper was weak.
Ricky
I support gay rights but not that man’s hands.
Elías
You literally swung first.
Ricky
Family court would side with me.
Elías
You are not taking anything to family court. You’re broke, pendejo.
Ricky
Not with that attitude.
Then, five minutes later.
Ricky
For real though. Happy for you, primo.
I stared at that one for too long. Then he went and ruined it.
Ricky
But if he dents my car again, pride month is canceled.
So yes, my family knows.
My family is being my family about it. Loud. Nosy. Weirdly supportive, ready to feed him and threaten him in the same breath.
Fabián’s family, though? That’s a locked garage with the lights off. He texted me this morning.
Fabián
Can I see you tonight?
No good morning.
No apology for making everyone at Bahía Nights lose their collective minds.
No explanation.
Just that.
Can I see you tonight?
So naturally, because I am strong and emotionally balanced, I made him wait nine minutes before answering.
Elías
You asking like an adult or summoning me like a horny internet person?
Fabián
Adult.
Elías
Suspicious.
Fabián
Please, muneco?
You need me to beg again?
That one got me. I hate that please has become a weak spot. It should be illegal for that man to learn manners this late in life.
Elías
Fine.
Fabián
My place?
I stared at that message for a long time.
His place.
Not the market.
Not the trailer.
His apartment, his space, and potentially his bed.
The place where he sleeps alone, where his life exists without my mom coughing down the hall or Junior screaming commentary from a cooler. The place that would smell like him and detergent and motor oil and whatever quiet thing he does with himself when nobody is watching.
My stomach did something humiliating.
Elías
Send me the address.
He did.
Fabián
We can get burritos or something, so come hungry.
I almost threw my phone because I am Elías Cárdenas, and I know when a sentence has too many meanings in it.
Now I’m standing in my mother’s kitchen at seven forty-five on Monday night while she packs albóndigas into a container big enough to feed a construction crew.
“Mamá,” I say, watching her ladle more broth in. “I’m not moving in.”
She doesn’t look up. “I didn’t say you were.”
“You’re packing like I’m going to war.”
“You’re going to a man’s apartment after dark.”
“That is not war.”
Her eyebrow rises, so I shut up.
Anita, sitting at the kitchen table with Fatima in her lap, says, “It can be if he’s bad at it.”
I point at her. “You are not part of this conversation.”
“I am always part of conversations that make you uncomfortable.”
“Julio loves you by choice?”
She kisses Fatima’s head. “Every day.”
“Tragic.”
My mother seals the container, then adds a foil packet of tortillas.
“Mamá.”
“Hmm?”
“How many people do you think are going to be there?”
She looks at me, then her mouth does the thing.
Not a normal smile.
A mother’s smile.
The kind with sin in it.
“One hungry man,” she says. “And one who should make him work up an appetite.”
I stare at her with my mouth hanging open and Anita gasping behind me. Fatima slaps the table like she supports women in comedy.
“Mamá!”
My mother pushes the bag into my hands. “What? You think I don’t know things?”
“I was hoping you didn’t.”
“Always so dramatic.” She waves her hand around.
“I swear to God, I’m gonna walk into traffic.”
“Not before you take him food,” she says, then she winks.
My mother—the woman who taught me to pray.
Winks at me.
I grab the bag and turn toward the door.
Anita calls after me, “Text me if you need bail!”
“I am going to have a normal dinner. No crimes are going to be committed.”
She laughs so hard Fatima startles at the sound.
Fabián’s apartment is on the second floor of a small building near a strip of auto shops, a laundromat, and a taco truck that looks like it has seen three divorces and at least one knife fight.
The stairs are outside, metal and loud under my shoes.
The evening air is still warm, but not market-hot.
Streetlights buzz, and somewhere below, a car alarm chirps once and gives up.
I stand outside his door with a bag of albóndigas in one hand and my dignity in the other, both sweating profusely.
Before I can knock, the door opens.
Fabián stands there in a black tank and gray basketball shorts, barefoot, hair damp like he showered recently. Silver studs in his ears. Chain at his throat. No crop top tonight, which feels personal and rude. His arms are bare, and his body fills the doorway. He looks nervous.
Good. I like him nervous.
I like everything about him.
This is becoming a serious problem.
His gaze drops to the bag in my hand. “What’s that?”
“My mother sent food.”
His mouth twitches. “Albóndigas?”
“Yes.”
His face does this tiny, unguarded thing. It’s all soft and hungry. Not just for food, and I nearly forgive him for not wearing a crop top.
“She said,” I begin, because I’m an asshole and cannot keep anything holy, “that I should make you work up an appetite.”
Fabián’s entire body goes still, then he slowly looks up at me. “She said that?”
“With a wink.”
His eyes close and I grin.
“Your ma’s scary.”
“She likes you,” I smirk.
“That’s worse.” He blows out a breath. “Now there are expectations.”
“She also told me you seem serious.”
He opens his eyes and something flickers there.
I step closer. “Are you?”
His jaw flexes. “Come inside.”
“That is not an answer.”
He steps aside. “Maybe if you come in… I’ll give you one.”
The air between us pulls tight.
Fabián reaches out, taking the bag from my hand, and says, “You look good.”
I blink, looking down at my dark navy shorts and white tank top. Nothing special.
He blinks.
“That compliment didn’t sound so painful,” I say.
“It was less painful than yesterday.”
“Progress.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” he says, giving me a half smile.
“You don’t regret me, remember?”
His eyes hold mine.
“No,” he says. “I don’t.”
He steps back and lets me in, and Fabián’s apartment is way cleaner than I expected.
Not because I thought he lived like a disaster.
He seems too controlled for that. But I expected more…
I don’t know… bachelor chaos. A plate in the sink.
Work boots thrown somewhere. Mail stacked in threatening little towers.
Instead, the place is sparse and neat. A small couch in the living area by the door complete with a TV and coffee table with a few old car magazines.
A pair of work boots and shoes are in an organizer.
Keys and a rosary in a little ceramic bowl that looks like something his tía bought him and he pretends not to like.
A small kitchen to the left and a tiny dining table with two chairs.
One bedroom visible through a half-open door and a bunch of framed pictures of him with his tío and tía on a shelf.
It smells like soap, coffee, motor oil, and him.
Dangerous.
Deeply dangerous.
“You cleaned,” I say.
“No,” he says very quickly.
“Fabián.”
He carries the food to the kitchen counter. “I just picked up.”
“Your couch has vacuum lines.”
His ears go red.
I smile slowly. “You cleaned for me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You cleaned for your boyfriend.”
His hand stills on the container, and that’s when I realize I said it. The word.
Boyfriend.
I said it because I’m apparently determined to put my bare hand on every hot surface. Fabián looks at me from across the kitchen, breathing only a little harder than he was before.
“Yeah,” he says.
My smile fades. “What?”
“Yeah,” he repeats. “I cleaned for my boyfriend.”
Oh, well. Okay.
My heart trips, falls down the stairs, and lies there dramatically.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters.
“Like what?”
“Like I just proposed or some shit.”
“I mean—” I look around jokingly. “You’re not going to, are you?”
He rolls his eyes and opens the container of albóndigas, and steam rises between us, warm and tomato-rich and familiar. It should break the tension.
It doesn’t; if anything, it makes the apartment feel more domestic.
“So,” I say, crossing the room and leaning against the counter, “your family?”
His hand tightens on the spoon.
“What about them?”
I keep my voice light. “Do they know their crop-top prince declared himself publicly claimed at the raspado stand?”
He huffs. “My tía and Junior know.”
“And?”