Page 147 of Raspados & Regret

She kisses Fatima’s head. “Every day.”

“Tragic.”

My mother seals the container, then adds a foil packet of tortillas.

“Mamá.”

“Hmm?”

“How many people do you think are going to be there?”

She looks at me, then her mouth does the thing.

Not a normal smile.

A mother’s smile.

The kind with sin in it.

“One hungry man,” she says. “And one who should make him work up an appetite.”

I stare at her with my mouth hanging open and Anita gasping behind me. Fatima slaps the table like she supports women in comedy.

“Mamá!”

My mother pushes the bag into my hands. “What? You think I don’t know things?”

“I was hoping you didn’t.”

“Always so dramatic.” She waves her hand around.

“I swear to God, I’m gonna walk into traffic.”

“Not before you take him food,” she says, then she winks.

My mother—the woman who taught me to pray.

Winks at me.

I grab the bag and turn toward the door.

Anita calls after me, “Text me if you need bail!”

“I am going to have a normal dinner. No crimes are going to be committed.”

She laughs so hard Fatima startles at the sound.

Fabián’s apartment is on the second floor of a small building near a strip of auto shops, a laundromat, and a taco truck that looks like it has seen three divorces and at least one knife fight. The stairs are outside, metal and loud under my shoes. The evening air is still warm, but not market-hot. Streetlights buzz, and somewhere below, a car alarm chirps once and gives up.

I stand outside his door with a bag of albóndigas in one hand and my dignity in the other, both sweating profusely.

Before I can knock, the door opens.

Fabián stands there in a black tank and gray basketball shorts, barefoot, hair damp like he showered recently. Silver studs in his ears. Chain at his throat. No crop top tonight, which feels personal and rude. His arms are bare, and his body fills the doorway. He looks nervous.

Good. I like him nervous.

I like everything about him.