Page 143 of Raspados & Regret

“Junior.”

“Did you just get your soul sucked out in the raspado trailer?”

My tía gasps. “Junior!”

Elías’s mother yells, “Julian!”

“Why am I in trouble? Look at him!”

The line erupts, and phones lift up higher. My entire life flashes in front of my eyes, and somehow Junior is annoying in most of it. Elías steps beside me, closer than he has all night.

Shoulder brushing mine.

The girl at the front of the line, the one who asked if we were together, looks between us with her mouth open.

“So,” she says slowly. “About that, yes?”

Elías freezes and I feel it.

This is the moment. My second chance to prove to him that I’m not scared… even though I am.

I look at Elías and he looks back.

Do not make me say no for you again.

My pulse pounds, and I turn to the customer, clearing my throat.

“Yes,” I say with more conviction this time. “We’re together.”

“That’ll be $5.75,” I say. “Cash or card?”

Junior clutches his chest like he’s been shot. My tía says nothing. Elías’s mother also says nothing. Elías just smiles with his cheeks pinking beside me while he starts making her raspado. Then he leans close enough that only I can hear him.

“Next time you choose me in public,” he whispers, “don’t look so scared after.”

“I’m not scared.” I smirk, knowing that I’m fucking terrified.

“Mentiroso.”

I look at the tablet, then at the line. At the customers trying very hard to pretend they are not filming us having this very public, tender disaster.

Then at him.

“I was trying not to come again,” I mutter. “Those red shorts are fucking attempted murder.”

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.