Page 72 of Raspados & Regret

Fuck my life.

“Was he any good?” She leans against the counter, waiting for me to start gossiping.

I grab a towel and throw it at her face. “We are so not having this conversation.”

She catches it with one hand while Fatima laughs like betrayal is a developmental milestone. “You know,” Anita says, backing toward the hallway, “you can use concealer.”

“Why would I do that?” I ask. “I’m not hiding it.”

Her eyebrows lift.

Fuck.

I turn back to the mirror. “I mean, I’m not wasting makeup on a rash.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Back pedal, hit that reverse. “Plus, it’s hot out. I’ll just sweat it off.”

“Sure… I believe you.” She laughs so hard Fatima starts bouncing on her hip.

“I hate this family.”

“No, you love us.” She blows me a kiss. “Mmm, you should wear the black shorts again. Maybe you’ll get to third base?”

“I was thinking of wearing a burlap sack,” I mutter.

“No, you weren’t.” She leaves before I can respond, still laughing down the hall.

I face the mirror again, and the hickey stares back at me.

Fine.

If Fabián wanted subtle, he shouldn’t have put his mouth on my neck like he was signing paperwork.

Naturally, because I’m a shit disturber, I choose a white tank, and another pair of black shorts, and silver chains because consistency matters, and my glasses because what’s the point in looking like a problem if I can’t see the look on Fabián’s face?

The hickey stays visible.

Let it.

When we finally get to Bahía Nights, the market is already a monster.

Not busy.

Straight up popping.

The parking lot is packed so tight people are parking across the street and walking over with kids, strollers, folding chairs, and the determined expressions of people who saw one TikTok and decided shaved ice was a spiritual calling. The air’s hot and sticky, with grilled meat, kettle corn, asphalt, way too much perfume, and straight chaos.

Music thumps through the speaker system, something old school and bass-heavy that makes the tents vibrate. String lights hang overhead for when the sun eventually stops being an asshole and goes down.

And our booth has a line.

Not a regular line. A line-line.

It curves past the jewelry vendor, around the agua fresca cooler, and toward the churro cart. People are holding phones. Some of them are already filming, and my mom stares at the crowd with the horrified joy of a woman who is about to make money and lose peace.

Anita steps beside me, Fatima now with Julio, thank God. “You ready?”