Page 134 of Raspados & Regret

“No.”

“Yes.” He sighs.

“No.”

“Fabián.”

“I hated it.” The words come out before I can stop them, and they’re ugly and honest.

His face softens, but his jaw stays tight. “You asked for space.”

“I know.”

He stares at me. “I gave it to you.”

“I know that too.”

“And you hated it?”

“Yes.”

He laughs once. “Papi, that is not my problem.”

“It felt like my problem.”

“That’s because it is. You can’t stand there with a knife and then get mad when I stop standing close enough for you to cut me.”

The words hit so cleanly I almost step back.

I don’t.

Because he’s right. I hate that he’s right.

I have spent my whole life thinking control meant nobody could touch the parts of me that hurt, and now Elías is standing in a raspado trailer with red shorts and a mouth that’s ruined me, pointing at the wound.

“I’m trying,” I say.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.” His voice rises, then drops immediately because we are still surrounded by people and his mother is outside. “I do know. That’s the problem. I know you’re trying. I know you don’t mean to make me feel like a secret you’re negotiating with yourself over. I know you’re scared. I know you’re not ready. I know all of that.”

He steps closer. “And I’m still hurt.”

My throat works.

The trailer feels smaller.

Hotter, like the air has syrup in it.

“I don’t want you to be a secret,” I whisper.

His eyes search mine.

“Then what do you want?”

“You.” The word is easier to say now.