Page 133 of Raspados & Regret

His mother mutters something in Spanish that sounds like a prayer or a threat.

Maybe both.

Elías pulls me around the booth, past the cooler, past Junior’s delighted little face, and toward the Cárdenas trailer. He yanks the side door open and shoves me inside. The trailer is dim and hot, syrup-sweet, and cramped. Extra cups stacked along one wall. Cooler near the back. Plastic bins under the counter. The tiny service window throws a slice of market light across the floor, but from outside, nobody can see us unless they come around to the door.

Elías steps in after me and shuts it. His eyes flash behind his glasses. “What the fuck was that?”

I rub my wrist, not because it hurts, but because I can still feel his fingers there.

“What?”

His laugh is sharp. “Don’t what me right now.”

“She asked.”

“And I answered,” he snaps.

“So did I.”

“You said yes.”

“Because it was the truth.”

His mouth opens, then closes. For once, I got him.

Then his eyes narrow. “You don’t get to do that.”

My temper sparks. “Do what?”

“You don’t get to tell me you’re not ready for people to know, then say yes in front of a line full of phones like you’re ordering extra lechera.”

“I didn’t plan it.” I shrug, shoulders going up to my ears.

“That makes it better?”

“I didn’t like you saying no.”

His face changes because it lands.

Elías’s voice drops. “I was protecting you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“No, you asked for time.”

“And I’m starting to think I need less of it than I thought.”

He goes still, and the trailer hums around us. Generator noises and bass from the beer garden. The muffled roar of the market. Elías stares at me, and under the anger, I see it.

Hope.

Hurt.

Both.

My chest feels too tight for the small space. “You left me on read,” I say.

His eyebrows lift. “That’s what this is about?”