Page 8 of Raspados & Regret

“It’s a crop top.”

“It’s hot.”

“Yeah,” he says, taking in a slow breath with his eyes on me. “I noticed.”

Something in my chest punches once, and it’s worse than fear because I don’t have a name for it.

“Boys,” my tía calls. “Stop flirting and move the table to where it needs to go.”

Every vendor in a six-booth radius goes silent for half a second.

Elías’s mouth drops open.

I turn toward my tía. “We’re not flirting.”

She doesn’t even look up from arranging her cups. “Then stop doing whatever that is.”

Elías makes a strangled sound beside me, and to keep from going off on him, I grab the table. He grabs the other end, and we lift it at the same time, both of us suddenly very interested in not looking at each other.

When eight-thirty rolls around, the market’s in full swing. String lights twinkle above the walkways. Music thumps from a DJ booth near the beer garden, and kids run around with sticky hands and glow bracelets. The smell of grilled meat, kettle corn, fried dough, and hot pavement hangs in the air. Someone’s uncle is yelling about parking; there’s a toddler crying like the world has ended because their paleta fell on the concrete.

Normal summer market stuff.

Our booth should be a disaster with how tense everything is between Elías and me; instead, it’s busy.

Too busy.

My tía’s aguas frescas are selling out fast, and the Cárdenas family has a line for raspados that curves past the neighboring jewelry booth. I’m stuck taking payments because apparently I have the “don’t try me” face that discourages people from asking for discounts.

Elías works the shaved ice machine like he was born behind it. He packs ice into cups, pours syrup, and adds fruit, chamoy, Tajín, candy, condensed milk, or whatever people ask for. He talks to everybody. Kids love him; aunties love him. Girls love looking at him, and even the men laugh at his jokes when they aren’t funny.

He moves fast, his mouth even faster.

“Next. What you want, mija?”

“Extra chamoy? Good choice.”

“Blue raspberry? Ay, I’m not judging you.”

“No, señora, I cannot make it less cold. It’s ice.”

I shouldn’t be watching him, especially when I have the payment app open and a line of people in front of me. I have shit to do. Important things. Things that have nothing to do with the way Elías’s tongue ring taps against the straw when he steals a sip from his own drink between orders.

A woman in line clears her throat, and I pull my attention back to her. “Perdón.”

She looks amused.

“Two mango raspados,” she says. “And whatever he’s having.”

I glance at Elías, and he glances back.

“What?” he asks.

The woman grins. “Nothing.”

I fucking hate everyone.

Around nine twenty-five, the rush finally slows down. My back aches from hunching over, and my shirt sticks to me like a second skin. My fingers are stained red from syrup even though I’ve not made a single raspado.