“I accept.”
“I knew you’d say yes,” she says, flashing a smile.
“But don’t complain later if you find out I don’t handle alcohol very well.”
Ariadna bursts out laughing.
“Don’t worry.” She waves her hand dismissively. “My best friend is way worse.”
The two of them go back to poring over the papers.
And as the conversation turns back to work, Rebeca tries to convince herself that going out on Thursday is exactly what she needs. Although deep down, very deep down, she knows there are memories that don’t fade so easily.
When the meeting ends, Rebeca leaves the building with her head full of notes and her heart filled with a whirlwind of emotions. The cool morning air feels like a soothing balm. She walks slowly along the Paseo de Pereda, letting the sound of the sea accompany her. The Cantabrian Sea glistens under the timid sun that has managed to break through the clouds, and for a moment she stops in front of the bay and takes a deep breath.
Her skin still feels sensitive, as if Martina had left invisible marks on every inch of her body.
She takes out her phone and opens the chat with Bruno to write a short message.
“Something happened last night.”
She deletes it.
She types again.
“I hope you can come soon. We have a lot to talk about.”
She hits send before she can change her mind, and the reply comes almost instantly.
“I’ll be there this weekend. Are you okay?”
She decides not to reply for now. Rebeca smiles bitterly, accompanied by a sun that’s already warming up a little more.
Santander slowly awakens around her. And Rebeca feels that she is awake too.
Even if she isn’t quite sure where that awakening will take her.
Chapter 13
The backyard of Martina’s parents’ house exudes that peculiar calm found only in family homes on spring afternoons. The long, sturdy wooden table stands ready in the filtered shade of a grapevine that is timidly beginning to cover the pergola with tender, glossy leaves. The air carries the damp scent of freshly cut grass, the earthy aroma of freshly turned flower beds, and, from the kitchen opening onto the patio, the comforting warmth of the stew bubbling on the stove.
Martina and Julia arrived an hour ago, after nearly three hours on the road from Santander. The trip passed in tense silence, broken only by occasional comments about work and how unusual it is to go to a family meal in the middle of a Wednesday. Now, settled in the house, the tension Martina has been carrying for days mingles with the sweet, somewhat melancholic familiarity of this place she has known since childhood.
Three days. Only three days have passed since that night. But to her, it feels like a horrifying eternity.
She remembers waking up among Rebeca’s rumpled sheets, her skin still tingling from the memory of Rebeca’s fingers tracing slow paths, of her lips that tasted of urgency, of the precise, almost painful way she said her name when desire broke down every barrier they tried to erect. Martina can stillfeel the weight of that delicious body on top of hers, the hot breath against her neck as Rebeca whispered her name over and over.
But she also remembers how Rebeca left as soon as dawn broke.
And since then, three days have passed in which they’ve run into each other on the building’s landing and immediately turned away, because they’ve never been alone. Without a single chance to talk about what happened. And, to top it all off, Martina doesn’t even have Rebeca’s new number.
On more than one occasion, she’s climbed the stairs with her heart in her throat and pressed her finger to the doorbell on her floor—to no answer—but work has stood between them time and again.
As if fate had drawn a perfect circle to prevent them from talking about what they felt that night.
“Well, I don’t think you need to change a single photo,” Julia says as she places some of the plates on the linen tablecloth. “The photo essay seems perfect to me just as it is. It has… power. That photo at dawn, with the waves breaking, is stunning.”
Martina looks up from the napkins she’s also setting out.
