Epilogue #2
My tía hands Elías a foil-wrapped taco. “Here, mijo, eat before you get skinny.”
Elías takes it with both hands. “Gracias, tía.”
My chest tightens, and you’d think I’d be over that by now, but it still does that sometimes because seeing him fold into my family like he was always supposed to be there makes my heart so happy.
Every Sunday my tía goes to Mass and so do I, most weeks.
Only now sometimes Elías comes with me, mostly because he likes breakfast after and says kneeling helps build character and his glutes.
The first time he came, my tía squeezed his hand during the sign of peace and said, “Dios te bendiga, mijo.”
Elías looked at me afterward in the parking lot like he was trying not to fall apart. I pretended not to notice for his sake, then bought him pan dulce afterward.
I’m not so good at “showing my feelings,” but I am excellent at carbs.
My tío still doesn’t talk much about it.
About us. About me being with a man. But he asks Elías about the raspado business during get-togethers, changes his oil for free even though Elías insists on paying, and once told me, while we were fixing a transmission at the shop, “That one loves you loudly. Good. You’re too quiet. ”
Then he hit the wrench twice and added, “Don’t mess it up.”
That was his blessing wrapped in a threat.
It’s very “Mexican father” of him.
A phone appears over the counter, complete with the flash on, in the hand of some teenager with braces, and they say, “Can you guys do the thing?”
Elías blinks. “The thing?”
“You know.” She waves between us. “Argue.”
I stare at her, and Elías leans on the counter. “Mija, we don’t perform on command.”
“Yes, you do,” Anita says from behind us, walking up with Fatima on her hip and Julio trailing behind with a stroller, two bags, and the face of a man who has accepted his place in the universe.
Elías points at her. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m always helping.”
“You’re always committing domestic terrorism.”
Fatima reaches for my chain, so I step closer and let her grab the pendant. “Hey, gordita.”
She grunts at me.
“She says you’re whipped,” Anita says.
“She said no such thing.” I hold out my arms, and she reaches for me. Anita passes her over with a look of relief. “You got the baby carrier? I could put her on my back for a little bit, you know, give you a break.”
“Yeah, let me grab it.” She says it, then starts rummaging through the stroller, producing a black baby carrier that she helps her daughter into on my back.
All while Julio looks at the menu. “Can I get a ‘No Regrets’ special?”
Elías side-eyes him. “Can you read the menu?”
Julio closes his eyes, and Anita cackles. I turn away because I don’t want to laugh. Even Fatima giggles on my back. The teenager gets her video, but it’s not because we perform on command. No, it's because Elías’s sister has no respect for peace.
Julio says, “Actually, make that two.”
“Careful, don’t strain yourself,” Elías says, already grabbing another cup.
“Man, I hate this family.”
Anita spins around and says, “You married in; you don’t like it? File for divorce. Good luck with reading all the paperwork.”
Junior yells, “A voluntary victim,” from the cooler.
The video is probably viral before the raspados melt.
At nine, the rush finally slows; the sky is dark now, and the market is all lights and noise and warm bodies moving between booths.
My shirt clings to my back because Fatima is a straight-up heater when she’s asleep.
My hands are sticky, and Elías has a smear of chamoy near his thumb, one I’ve been watching for ten minutes like a man with no dignity.
He notices and instead of licking it off himself, because he has apparently developed restraint just to spite me, he walks over and holds his hand out.
I look at it, then at him. He says nothing, just waits for me to do what he knows I’m dying to do. I grab his wrist and lift his hand to my mouth, and his breath catches before my tongue touches his skin.
There are phones.
People.
Family.
God.
Whatever.
I lick the chamoy from his thumb.
Slowly.
Not obscene enough to get arrested but just enough that Junior makes gagging sounds and my tía says, “Ay, Fabián,” in a voice that means she is judging me but also amused and also still going to make me take home leftovers.
Elías’s eyes darken behind his glasses.
“Papi’s getting bold,” he murmurs.
I shrug. “I’m working on my public displays of affection.”
“That’s what we’re calling this?”
“Educational, huh.”
“Very.”
His fingers curl lightly against my palm, and I don’t let go.
“Anybody ever tell you how hot you look holding a toddler?” Elías looks me up and down, and for a second I think he’s going to grab my hand and drag me to the trailer.
My brain stutters and starts thinking about me holding a tinier baby, a baby that could be ours. How sexy he’d look reading to our kid, helping coach soccer games, being the dad I never got.
Elías leans closer, shoulder against mine, nudging me out of the daydream. “You okay?”
I look at him and smile, reaching down to give his hand a squeeze. “I’m good. Got a little caught up in my head. You know… you’d make a pretty hot dad.”
His expression softens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I huff, laughing. “I know we’re not there yet, but… um, is that something you ever think about?”
He shrugs nonchalantly, “I mean… sometimes I guess. But I know it’s a process, and I never really thought I’d find a guy that would want kids.”
“I want one someday,” I whisper, quiet enough that my tia won’t hear me say it. “So maybe you could think about the idea of that with me?
His smile breaks open, and all I want to do is kiss him.
So I do.
Right there at the booth, under the lights, with the market buzzing around us and both our families pretending not to stare. The kiss is quick because we’re still working and my tía will throw a spoon at me if the line backs up.
But it is enough.
Enough for Elías’s fingers to tighten in mine.
Enough for someone in line to cheer.
Enough for Junior to yell, “Finally,” like he has not had a front-row seat to our entire relationship and several crimes against public decency.
I pull back.
Elías looks up at me with that soft, smug, dangerous face I have loved longer than I was willing to admit.
There.
The word.
Loved. Love.
It doesn’t scare me the way it used to.
I touch the side of his neck, thumb brushing the place where last summer I left marks I didn’t know how to stand behind yet. No hickeys tonight, well, no visible ones, anyway.
“You’re doing the face,” he whispers.
“What face?”
“The one that says you’re about to say something emotionally devastating and then ask for payment method.”
I glance at the line and take into consideration how much I could charge for a moment like this. I look back at him, and he’s laughing silently.
“I love you,” I say, and his smile vanishes.
For the first time since I have known him, Elías Cárdenas has no immediate response.
No joke.
No comeback.
No little click of the tongue ring.
Just wide eyes, parted lips, and one hand squeezing mine so hard it almost hurts.
Good, I like surprising him.
He blinks.
Once.
Twice. “Fabián.”
I shrug because my chest is trying to crack open and I need to survive the next ten seconds. “What? Don’t act like you didn’t know.”
His eyes shine.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “But you’ve never said it out loud in public.”
“I love you, Elías,” I say again, a little louder this time. “And I don’t give a fuck if the whole world knows it.”
A phone flashes.
My tía gasps softly behind us and starts whispering to my tío about a wedding. Elías’s mother mutters, “Ay, por fin,” under her breath.
Junior’s voice cracks when he says, “Oh fuck, I’m gonna cry.”
“Shut up,” I say, without looking away from Elías.
Elías laughs, but it breaks in the middle. Then he grabs my face and kisses me. Warm and deep and laughing at the edges because this is still us, and somebody is absolutely filming, and the line is definitely backing up, and I absolutely don’t care.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“I love you too,” he whispers.
The words settle in me, and I kiss him one more time.
Then my tía says, “Okay, enough. People are thirsty.”
Elías drops his face into my chest and laughs.
I turn my head. “We’re kinda having a moment.”
“You can have a moment after you sell some aguas y raspados.”
Elías lifts his head. “She’s right.”
I stare at him. “Traitor.”
“Business first, mi amor.”
Mi amor. My chest goes stupid, and it’s like he knows it too, because he smirks.
I point at him. “Don’t use that tone at work.”
“What tone?”
“The one that makes me want to drag you into the trailer.”
His eyes flash. “Again?”
Junior screams, “I heard that!”
My tío says, “Unfortunately, so did I.”
The whole booth erupts, and Elías laughs so hard he has to hold onto my arm. I stand there with my sticky hands, my red ears, my boyfriend laughing against me, my family yelling, his family yelling louder, and a line full of customers watching us like dinner theater with condensed milk.
The market keeps moving, and there’s a kiss stolen near the cooler when family isn’t looking, another behind the table when my tía pretends not to see.
Elías’s shoulder against mine and those yellow shorts.
Those fucking yellow shorts.
They survive the rest of the night only because the law is watching.
The law being my tío.
By the time we close, I have imagined taking them off at least sixteen different ways.
With my teeth.
With one hand.
Ripping them off.
With divine intervention.
He bends too slow when he reaches for the last stack of cups. He stretches too high when he takes the sign down, tank lifting, shorts riding up, skin flashing in the warm market light like he is actively trying to shorten my lifespan.
I stand near the cooler with two bags of trash in my hands and watch him. Fatima is now gone from my back; I know it’s time for a little fun with my boyfriend.
He glances over his shoulder.
Smiles.
That smile says, “Later.”
My dick says, “Now.”