Page 131 of Raspados & Regret

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.

My stomach drops and the photo gets taken. The girls leave giggling, and Elías steps away immediately.

I follow.

“Lalo.”

He grabs a bottle of chamoy. “Working.”

“I’m trying to talk to you.”

“No, you’re trying to flirt like a man who learned from a YouTube tutorial titled Aggressive Eye Contact for Beginners.”

My mouth opens and snaps shut.

Junior chokes on his horchata, and even my tía coughs.

Elías turns toward the customers, smile bright and false. “Who’s next?”

I stand there, stunned.

Then I laugh.

I really fucking shouldn’t.

But I do. One short, surprised laugh that slips out before I can stop it. Elías glances back at me, and for half a second, his face softens.

There you are, I think.

Then another customer steps up. A woman with curly hair, a phone in one hand and a five-dollar bill in the other. She looks between us with the kind of confidence only strangers and toddlers have.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “But are you two together? Like together-together?”