Page 125 of Raspados & Regret

Being chosen in daylight? That is the part that hurts, because I’m not sure if Fabián knows how to want me where people can see.

My phone buzzes again, but this time I leave him on read.

NINE

FABIÁN

The worst part is that Elías gives me exactly what I asked for.

Space.

Time.

Room to figure my shit out.

I should appreciate that. A mature man would appreciate that.

A stable man would look at the situation and say, Wow, that is very considerate of him. How thoughtful. How emotionally responsible. How kind of Elías Cárdenas to not push me after I admitted I’m one stiff breeze away from a full identity crisis in front of God and my tía.

I’m not that man.

No, I’m a man standing in the parking lot of Bahía Nights Summer Market on Sunday evening, watching Elías laugh with a customer like his mouth didn’t spend last night wrecking every part of my life, and I hate the space.

I hate it.

I asked for time, and now suddenly time seems like a curse.

He is wearing red shorts tonight.

Red.

Not black.

Red shorts. Hickeys still visible but faded at the edges, purple blooming under the gold-orange sunset like a sign I put up and now don’t know how to stand under.

He looks good.

Annoyingly good. Like God made him and then immediately said, My bad, this one’s going to ruin somebody.

Probably me.

Definitely me.

I close my truck door and stand there for an extra second, trying to put my face back together before I walk toward the booth.

Good luck with that, pendejo.

You’re fucked and you know it.

Junior spots me first because apparently uselessness comes with excellent peripheral vision. He is sitting on a cooler near the back of the booth, one crutch propped beside him, eating an elote like he’s never in his life been asked to contribute to society.

He looks at me, then looks at Elías.

Then he looks back at me, and his grin starts slow.

“No,” I say before he can open his mouth.

“I didn’t say nothing.”