Page 17 of Raspados & Regret

Fabián snorts, and I look at him. “Now it seems like you’ve got something to say?”

“Nada.”

“You snorted,” I say, glaring at him as if it will force his stupid mouth to open and spill what his issue is.

“I breathed.”

“Like a hater,” I say.

“I breathed like a normal person.”

Ugh, what a dick. “You brood like a telenovela villain.”

“And you dress like a fucking lifeguard who got banned from the pool.”

I look down at my shorts. “These are summer shorts.”

“They’re glorified underwear with pockets.”

His tío chokes, and I smile. Fabián’s face doesn’t change, but his ears go a little red.

Just a little, and it makes him pretty fucking adorable.

Nope.

Nope, nope, nope.

I do not want Fabián Salcedo.

That is not a thought I’m entertaining. It’s too early in the day for that—I haven’t even had lunch. Men shouldn’t have sexual identity crises before tacos.

We get the canopy up without anyone dying, which feels like growth, and then we spend the rest of the time prepping. My mom and Fabián’s tía move around each other with the coordination of women who’ve already decided this booth merger is permanent because it makes money and gives them something to gossip about.

Fabián works quietly, and that’s the thing about him. I call him arrogant because it’s easier than admitting I notice the rest. He doesn’t complain or slack off. He fixes the wobbly table leg with a piece of cardboard; he rewires the extension cord situation so nobody trips.

He carries the heavy cooler himself when my mom starts reaching for it.

Fabián says almost nothing while doing all of this, which is annoying because I talk when I’m nervous, and he just exists with his stupid, competent hands sans verbal diarrhea.

The tips of his fingers are stained red from cutting strawberries at prep, and that's when I get a good look at his hands. His fingers are thick, rough, and careful when they need to be. I watch him use a pocketknife to slice through a package of straws.

The silver ring on his thumb flashes in the lights, and then his crop top shifts again, and I get a glimpse of his tattoo on his upper right rib. A pair of hibiscus flowers.

I drop a bottle of tamarindo syrup, and it hits the table with a plastic thud.

Fabián glances up. “Whoa, you okay?”

I hate that he keeps asking me that and that his voice gets lower every time he does.

“I’m perfect,” I say.

“You know, lying doesn’t help situations.” He sighs. “If you need help with something, let me know. I’m not as useless as you think I am.”

Damn him for sounding sincere. “If I need your help, I’ll let you know.”

“Whatever you say, clumsy.”

“God, you’re fucking bitter.” I snort.