Page 19 of Raspados & Regret

One of them asks, “No, you’re not single?”

He stares at the tablet. “No, I’m not answering that question.”

They giggle harder, and I hate them for it. Not because I care. Because they’re holding up the line.

Obviously.

The tallest one leans on the table, eyes on Fabián’s arms. “You work out, don’t you?”

His expression doesn’t change as he rings them up. “I work.”

I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in my head. She, on the other hand, loves that answer. Of course she does. Women always love the quiet ones because they mistake silence for depth.

Sometimes it is depth, and sometimes it is just a man who doesn’t know how to use his words unless he’s criticizing your oil change schedule.

“Can we get extra chamoy?” she asks him.

“I don’t make them,” Fabián says, and then he points at me without looking.

The woman turns, and her eyes flick over me, my glasses, my earrings, and my shorts. Her smile gets playful. “You make them?”

“I make everything better,” I say automatically.

Fabián makes a sound beside me, and I can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a groan.

I look at him, and he looks at the payment screen like it insulted his tía. The woman looks between us and grins.

Great.

The night blurs into sugar and noise after that. I make raspado after raspado until my wrists ache. Fabián handles payments, refills ice, keeps the table stocked, and tells people the price without blinking when they try to haggle.

He’s good at being intimidating. I’m good at being charming. Together, unfortunately, we’re efficient.

Also, people keep watching us.

I can feel it.

Every time we argue, someone smiles. Every time Fabián reaches over me for a stack of lids, someone whispers. Every time I call him “tough guy,” his jaw tightens, and the comments from this morning replay in my head.

“The crop top one and the glasses one need to kiss already.”

Stupid internet, stupid fucking people putting ideas in my head.

Around ten, the line finally thins, and my mom disappears with his tía to “look at the other booths,” which is code for chisme time. Anita leaves early to get my niece to bed, but not before whispering, “Don’t get pregnant,” in my ear.

I tell her to go to hell, and she just kisses my cheek.

Families are curses with matching blood types.

Fabián and I end up alone behind the booth for the first time all night.

Not alone alone. There are vendors nearby, customers walking around, and loud music still playing. But alone enough.

I’m rinsing syrup pumps in a plastic tub of water when Fabián steps beside me to grab the trash bag. His arm brushes mine, and it’s a quick touch.

Nothing major, except it’s like my skin’s been waiting all damn day for him to touch me. He stills for half a second, and I keep washing the pump.

“You gonna move?” he asks.