“I see,” says Rebeca. “How nice. She must have really liked working there.”
Julia shrugs.
“It was a difficult time for her. But yes, it did her good. It changed a lot of things.”
Rebeca doesn’t ask what things. She isn’t sure she wants to know, because she knows where this is going.
Just then, Martina walks into the living room.
The movement is so quiet that it takes Rebeca a second to realize she’s no longer alone with Julia. Martina is wearing a simple black T-shirt that hugs her torso and dark pants rolled up to her ankles. Her hair is casually pulled back, with a few dark strands falling loosely against the nape of her neck, and she holds a dish towel in one hand after setting the salad on the table. The scent of spices and melted cheese clings to her like a second skin.
She approaches the armchair next to the sofa and sits down with a naturalness that seems carefully controlled for a moment like the one the three of them are experiencing.
“As Julia told you, yes… it was a great opportunity,” she replies to the previous comment.
Her eyes drift toward Rebeca for just an instant. A fleeting moment, but enough for Rebeca to feel a chill run down her spine.
“Your mother also told me that you’ve been working in various places,” Martina remarks, and Rebeca nearly chokes on her drink.
The mention of her mother takes her slightly by surprise. She didn’t know they were still in touch.
She takes another sip of wine to buy some time.
“Yes,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve had some interesting opportunities. I can’t complain.”
The phrase is deliberately neutral. It makes Martina nod cautiously.
“I’m glad. You’ve always been very good at what you do.”
The compliment sounds sincere, but it also hurts. Rebeca feels Martina’s gaze on her even when she isn’t looking directly at her. There’s something about that attention that makes her uncomfortably aware of every little gesture: the way she holds her glass, the movement of her breath, the posture of her shoulders trying to look relaxed, but which aren’t at all.
Suddenly, the oven timer goes off, signaling that the lasagna is ready.
“I’ll get it,” Julia says, standing up.
She heads to the kitchen with quick steps and disappears behind the door.
“You’ll see how much you love it!” she calls from there. “It’s my mother’s recipe. With extra béchamel, just the way you liked it.”
Rebeca takes advantage of the distraction to pour herself a little more wine. The liquid slides down her throat with a smoothness she appreciates. When she looks up again, she finds Martina staring at her.
Not casually.
She’s observing her with an almost absorbing intensity. Her blue eyes slowly trace her face, as if, in that moment, Martina’s sole intention were to memorize the curve of her mouth, the strand of hair that has slipped onto her forehead, the faint blush that colors her cheeks.
The sensation is so obvious that it’s impossible to pretend it doesn’t exist.
Rebeca feels her pulse quicken slightly. Martina’s gaze has always had that power—to make the world shrink to the distance between their bodies, to the heat generated in the space that separates them.
“I’m sorry this is so uncomfortable for you,” Martina says after a moment. Her voice is low, barely a whisper that doesn’t reach the kitchen.
The words hang suspended in the space between them.
It takes Rebeca a few seconds to respond. Bruno’s voice pops into her mind, reminding her of the phone conversation she had with him as soon as she got home.
“You have to let things flow. Otherwise, you won’t be able to take a step without your head exploding.”
“Actually,” she says. And this time she does so with a calm smile on her lips, “I think it might even do us some good.”
