“And I don’t have an umbrella,” Martina adds shortly after. “I have my best friend, but she doesn’t live very close by and…”
“Don’t worry,” Rebeca interrupts her casually, as if she were starting to enjoy this little twist of fate. “Will Julia be long?”
Martina nods.
“She’s in Madrid. When I told her I’d left my keys behind, she told me to try calling you. And honestly, like I said, I didn’t know what to do.” Martina sighs before continuing. “I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you on a Sunday afternoon.”
Rebeca quickly shakes her head.
“It’s no bother at all, I promise.”
The look of regret on Martina’s face is so sincere that Rebeca finds it impossible not to smile. In fact, she ends up letting out a little laugh.
“What you should do is change,” she says, gesturing toward the soaked clothes. “Because from what I can see…”
Rebeca’s eyes briefly—and very slowly—trace Martina’s figure: the T-shirt clinging to her torso, the dark pants hugging her legs, the way the cold makes the skin on her arms stand on end.
“I think we’re still the same size,” she concludes, barely realizing when she clears her throat.
Martina raises an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips.
“That would be great,” she says.
“The bathroom is at the end on the left,” Rebeca adds, pointing down the hallway. “I’ll bring you something to wear.”
Martina nods.
Rebeca walks toward her bedroom, trying to make her footsteps sound as quiet as possible. But as soon as she closes the door, she leans against it. She takes a deep breath. Her heart is pounding in her chest with absurd intensity. She places a hand on her sternum, as if trying to calm that frantic rhythm.
“Come on…” she murmurs to herself. “Nothing’s wrong.”
But there is. Martina is in her house. In her bathroom. Soaked by the rain. And, against all logic, that simple fact has completely disrupted her peace of mind this afternoon. Today. Her whole life.
She opens the closet again. The clothes are still partially out of place after the move, so it takes her a few seconds to find something that might work. Finally, she pulls out one of the loose-fitting tracksuits she wears around the house: gray pants and a black hooded sweatshirt. Simple, comfortable, and neutral.
When she reaches the bathroom, she knocks on the door.
“Yes?”
Rebeca opens the door a crack and watches Martina, standing in front of the mirror, a wet T-shirt in one hand and her still-damp hair falling over her shoulders. She’s wearing a pink lace bra that contrasts with her skin, slightly reddened by the cold. Her bare back reveals the delicate line of her spine, her shoulder blades outlined by the slight tremor of her body. And meanwhile, her face is reflected in the mirror, with rosy cheeks, parted lips, and those electric blue eyes that meet Rebeca’s in the glass.
Rebeca clears her throat again, almost involuntarily.
“Here…” she says, holding out the clothes to her. “It’s not one of those shirts you like, but it’ll warm you up.”
Martina accepts the tracksuit with a smile.
“Thanks.”
Rebeca doesn’t leave right away. For a moment, she stands watching her reflection in the mirror—the image of Martina, leaning slightly toward the sink as she gathers her hair with her fingers.
“By the way, I bought some pizza,” Rebeca says. “Should I heat it up a bit and have you join me?”
Martina looks up, and the unease in her expression dissolves almost instantly.
“I’d love to.”
Five minutes later, the atmosphere in the living room has completely changed.
