Page 4 of Raspados & Regret

I could try to argue.

I could remind her I have work, bring up the Civic, the Tacoma with brake issues, and the lady with the Subaru who thinks every noise is the transmission when it’s usually whatever Stanley cup she lost under the seat. Or that I am twenty-eight years old and not available to be emotionally blackmailed into carrying coolers for family events.

Instead, I say, “What time?”

Because I’m not going to stand here and argue with the woman who raised me, fed me when her sister would leave me alone for weeks at a time, and then ultimately took me in so I wouldn’t end up in foster care.

Her smile blooms bright and victorious. “Noon.”

I look at my tío. “You said night market.”

“Setup starts early.”

“Setup for a night market starts at noon?”

My tía lifts the napkins. “You want shade or you want heatstroke?”

I look at the Civic, and the Civic looks back, silent and useless.

“I’m going to regret this,” I mutter.

My tía beams. “That’s the spirit.”

I regret it the next morning when my alarm goes off earlier than a reasonable man should be conscious and my body briefly considers death as an alternative to waking up. I regret it when I shove another crop top on because the forecast says by noon it’s going to be ninety-three. I regret it when I stop for coffee and the girl at the window calls me “hon” with enough pity in her voice to make me check my reflection.

But nothing makes me regret it more than when I pull into the cracked parking lot behind the community center and see a white pickup truck with a trailer already parked near the row of booth spaces.

Cárdenas Raspados.

The name is painted across the side in red and blue letters, with a cartoon cup wearing sunglasses and a little mustache.

It’s stupidly bright and completely annoying.

I park my truck three spaces away and sit there for a second with both hands on the wheel. The market space is quiet this early, all metal frames and folded tables, vendors unloading bins, the air still cool enough to pretend the day might be decent. In the distance, the freeway hums, and somewhere nearby, someone’s already playing music too loud.

I take a breath.

“You’re grown,” I tell myself. “You can be calm. You are not getting into a fight today over shaved ice and agua frescas.”

It’s almost believable. That is, until a sharp laugh cuts across the lot. One that makes my jaw lock.

I know that laugh.

I get out of my truck, my Vans hit the pavement, and the air hits the strip of skin between my crop top and waistband. I slam the cab door and grab the folding canopy from my truck bed, lifting it onto one shoulder.

Then I see him.

Elías Cárdenas stands by the back of the trailer, one hand braced on the open door, the other holding a clipboard like he’s in charge of something more complicated than ice and syrup. He’s wearing the absolute shortest black workout shorts I’ve ever seen. A faded white tee hangs loose on him, tucked just enough in the front to make the whole situation everyone’s problem, and a silver chain rests at his throat.

His ears are pierced, adorned with tiny silver studs and hoops, and glasses sit low on his nose. Narrow black frames that should make him look responsible but somehow make him look worse.

Okay, maybe not worse.

Just… extra.

He turns his head, tongue poking out to wet his bottom lip, and the tiny silver ball in his tongue catches the sun. My brain stalls. Like, the engine keeps turning over, and nothing catches. That type of stall. Then his eyes land on me, and that son of a bitch’s mouth curves.

There it is—the look. The one that says he woke up today and chose to be a pain in my ass.