Lucia kicked off her boots and ran down the hall, leaving behind a trail of snow that melted in the warmth.
I stayed outside with my arms crossed.
“How did it go?” Isa asked.
“It was good. Ducks are well-fed, and we had some hot chocolate.”
“Thank you for taking her. She talks about you all the time. I’m glad you made time for her.”
“I’ve always got time for that girl,” I said, shaking the thoughts away.
Isabel smiled and opened the door further.
She was inviting me in.
She didn’t always do that.
We argued a lot, and most nights, she probably didn’t feel like it.
I hesitated for half a second, then I stepped inside.
She’d poured us both a glass of red.
Now, I wasn’t the kind to deny a drink. That had never been my problem. My problem was the second drink. The third. The way one sip could convince me another wouldn’t hurt, and then suddenly, I was three glasses deep, laughing too loud, talking too much, feeling too damn good to stop.
I glanced at the glass, fingers itching.
It’s just a drink, I tried to tell myself.
But it was neverjusta drink with me.
Funny, how something that looked this innocent could ruin everything—how easily it could turn me into someone I didn’t recognize.
It wasn’t just the taste, the burn, the warmth it brought after the first few sips. It was the escape. It was feeling like someone else for a while. Someone lighter. Someone without bitter regrets.
Alcohol had always been my favorite lie. My favorite secret. It whispered things like,“Just one more won’t hurt,” like,“You’re fine,” like,“This is who you really are, Valentina.” And damn, sometimes I believed it.
But lately, when I looked into a glass like this, I couldn’t help but see Marco. The way his eyes narrowed when he saw me witha glass. He looked at me like I was better than the choices I made. Like he was waiting for me to realize it too.
I hated that look. I hated it because it made me want to be the kind of person who never gave him a reason to use it.
It was probably why I avoided him—or at least tried to. Not because I didn’t like him, but because he made me realize how much I didn’t like myself. He was a mirror, reflecting all the ways I kept messing up, and Ihatedit.
And yet lately, the idea of disappointing him felt worse than the hangovers. Worse than the shakes and the guilt and the judgmental stares from everyone else. I wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted him to look at me and see more than just another screwup; another drunk girl making bad decisions.
Isabel sat down, picking up her own glass without hesitation and swirling it in the way people did when they actually gave a shit about wine.
I’d never been that person. Wine was wine. It either got you drunk, or it didn’t.
I stared at it for a second too long. Then, finally, I picked it up.
Maybe one day I’d stop disappointing him.
Maybe one day I’d stop disappointing myself too.
CHAPTER 16
VALENTINA
