Page 29 of Raspados & Regret

My phone buzzes again, and this time it is not Junior.

It is Anita.

Elías’s sister. It’s been a while since she’s texted me, but we’ve all known each other since high school and have chilled on-and-off over the years… prior to the beef… which is how I know she’s got blackmail on half the East Bay. Also, Bay Area Mexican-American communities are basically one giant group chat with carne asada smoke.

So the fact that she’s texting me makes me nervous.

Anita

I hope you know he’s been quiet all morning. That never happens.

My thumb hovers over the screen.

Fuck.

I should block everyone and move to Nevada and fix slot machines under a false name. Before I can decide, another message comes in from her.

Anita

Whatever you did, thank you.

Then it all kinda dawns on me.

Elías.

Quiet.

Because of me?

A hot, stupid ribbon of satisfaction pulls through me.

Then panic punches it in the throat.

Fabián

Wrong number.

Delete it.

Fabián

Tell him to stay quiet forever.

Delete it.

Put the phone down, then pick the phone back up to do the one thing I know I shouldn’t—open Instagram.

I don’t know why I do it. That’s a lie. I know exactly why. My fingers move before my brain can stop them. In the search bar I type “Elías Cárdenas”—too many people. Delete and search “Lalo Cárdenas.” Still too many people.

Duh, dumbass… search the family business.

Cárdenas Raspados. Their business page comes up lightning fast. A bright logo with posts of the menu. POV videos of syrup pouring over shaved ice and a reel of Elías making raspados with fast hands and that mouth running nonstop. I should stop there.

I don’t stop there.

There is a tagged post, then another, with a personal account attached to it.

@lalo.con.limón