Page 165 of Raspados & Regret

That part still hits me sometimes.

Not like a punch anymore, more like walking into a clean apartment and smelling carne that I didn’t have to pick up from a truck. Like finding his lime-shaped ring dish on my dresser or waking up with one of his legs thrown over mine and his mouth open against my shoulder, snoring softly even though he swears he doesn’t snore.

Our booth.

Our apartment.

Our families.

Our summer.

Last year, Bahía Nights Summer Market shoved us into one shared space because of a permit problem and a cousin with a sprained ankle. This year, both families applied for the space together.

On purpose.

Which proves everybody involved is either in love with money, addicted to drama, or actively trying to shorten my life.

Probably all three.

The sign above us reads:

Cárdenas Raspados + Salcedo Aguas y Elotes

Underneath, because Elías cannot be trusted with markers or public-facing business decisions, there is a smaller chalkboard sign that says:

TRY THE NO REGRETS SPECIAL

mango + tamarindo + chamoy + tajín + lechera

Warning: may cause bad decisions

I told him we were not calling it that, and the bastard called a family meeting.

I lost.

I lost because his mother said the name was cute, my tía said it was good branding, and Anita said, “The girlies will eat that up,” and Junior said, “pause,” and then everyone ignored him because Junior still thinks showing up to help means sitting on a cooler and narrating labor like a sports commentator.

The line’s already long, and it is only six-thirty.

The market is bigger this year with more vendors and live music. More string lights. A bigger beer garden and people pretending they’re here for tacos and not to see if the raspado couple from TikTok is still together.

We are, and I’m still getting used to how easy that word feels now.

Together.

A year ago, a stranger asked if Elías and I were together, and he said no to protect me. I said yes because hearing no felt like somebody dragging a key down the side of my chest. Then I panicked so hard I almost swallowed my own tongue.

Tonight, a group of girls in matching pink cowboy hats approach the counter, phones already out, grinning like they have been waiting a calendar year to be annoying.

“You’re them,” one says.

Elías turns his smile on, and it’s full wattage.

Public menace.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“The ones from last summer,” another says. “Crop Top Papi and his Raspado Boyfriend.”