Page 18 of Raspados & Regret

“Loud motherfuck⁠—.”

“—Pretty fucking asshole.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

Fabián freezes, and I freeze too.

The whole booth keeps moving around us. My mom tells someone to move a cooler. His tía laughs at something near the back table. A vendor tests a speaker somewhere across the lot.

But between me and Fabián, everything locks.

His eyes lift to mine.

Slow.

“What?”

I should play it off, because I am excellent at playing things off. I’ve built an entire personality out of talking fast enough that nobody can tell when I’m telling the truth.

Instead, I smirk because my mouth is suicidal. “I said you’re pretty fucking loud for someone so quiet.”

His stare stays locked on mine while his head shakes slowly back and forth. “That’s not what you said.”

My pulse kicks, and I lean one hip against the table and shrug. “Maybe your pierced ears heard wrong.”

His eyes narrow and then, because God hates me or loves me too much, his gaze drops to my mouth.

My tongue ring sits heavy behind my teeth.

I click it once.

Fabián’s nostrils flare.

Oh.

Oh, this is bad.

Not just me bad.

Him bad.

Fabián Salcedo can stand there with his crop top, nipple piercings, and angry eyebrows all he wants. But he’s looking at my mouth.

My mouth.

This is interesting as hell.

“Boys,” his tía calls. “Put the fruit in the cooler before it gets warm.”

Fabián looks away first, and I count it as a victory because I am petty and spiritually unwell.

The market’s even busier than yesterday. More people bring more noise. Someone starts grilling carne asada two booths down, and the smell nearly makes me abandon my family business for a plate. Kids run by holding light-up swords.

Teenagers crowd near the agua fresca table. A group of women in matching “Bay Area Baddies Brunch Club” shirts order six raspados and ask if Fabián is single.

I nearly dump chamoy on my own hand as the conversation unfolds.

Fabián, who is ringing them up, says, “No.”

I look at him, and the women giggle.