Martina casts a fleeting glance toward the other end of the garden. Julia keeps talking, gesturing with her free hand, as if the world around her were of no concern to her.
“Yeah…” Martina replies with a touch of irony. “She sees everything in a positive light when it suits her.”
Carlos watches her in silence for a few seconds.
“Honey…” he murmurs, reaching out to brush her forearm. “What’s going on?”
Martina sighs, takes another sip, and her gaze drifts to the lawn surrounding them.
“Sometimes I think this marriage ended a long time ago,” she confesses in a low voice, almost surprised to hear herself say it. “We got married because we fit into a puzzle that seemed incomplete. Because everyone expected it after the thing that… happened. Because we were… comfortable with each other. And because, deep down, neither of us wanted to be alone.”
She pauses. Martina feels her heart begin to pound against her ribs.
“And now…” Her voice breaks for a moment. “Now Rebeca is just a landing away. And every time I see her, I feel like I can’t breathe. Like I’m that woman again—the one she really saw. And it hurts so much.”
Carlos doesn’t interrupt his daughter. He just listens to her, his fingers drumming against the bottle.
“So what are you going to do?” Carlos asks.
“I don’t know,” Martina replies, and then swallows hard. “But I can’t keep pretending this marriage is working. Not when we seem to be miles apart even though we share a life together.”
Carlos reaches out and gently wraps his hand around hers. The rough warmth of his palm makes her smile for a few brief seconds.
“I’ve always told you to seek your own happiness, sweetheart,” her father murmurs. “And if you can’t find it with Julia anymore… you should have that conversation with her. Before the two of you hurt each other any further.”
Martina squeezes her father’s fingers for a moment before letting go, but she doesn’t answer him. She just stares off toward the horizon where the sun is beginning to cast a golden glow over the treetops.
Dinner arrives shortly after, and the rest of the guests gather around the table: her parents, Julia, her sister Laura with Andrés, and the little girls darting between the chairs like two whirlwinds of curls and laughter.
The stew her mother has prepared gives off a rich aroma of rosemary and garlic; the salad glows green and fresh; and the glasses are filled with local red wine.
“Martina, you have to show us that photo essay you’ve been talking so much about,” Laura insists as she serves some meat for Clara. “Andrés says the photos you’ve been sharing on Instagram are amazing.”
“I promise I’ll show it to you once it’s published,” Martina replies with a polite smile. “You know I don’t like to show my work when it’s still a work in progress.”
“I’m sure it’s beautiful,” her mother chimes in, her eyes shining with pride. “You’ve always had an eye for this. Just like when you were little and you used to photograph the flowers in the courtyard with that rickety camera your father gave you.”
Clara gently tugs at her aunt’s sleeve.
“Aunt Martina, can we play hide-and-seek later? Please! And I want you to teach me how to take photos like yours!”
Martina leans down and strokes her rosy cheek.
“Of course, sweetie. As soon as we’re done, I’ll lend you the camera and we’ll take a few.”
Andrés bursts out laughing from across the table.
“Don’t give her any ideas; she’ll have us all posing later.”
Laughter ripples around the table. But Martina notices how, on several occasions, her wife slips her hand under the tablecloth to check her phone. The gesture repeats itself over and over, until it makes her stomach churn.
When the plates are almost empty and her mother begins to clear the table with Laura’s help, Martina gets up andapproaches Julia, who is standing by the hedge in the back, frowning at her phone.
“Can we talk for a moment?”
Julia looks up and blinks several times, as if returning from far away.
“Sure,” she replies, and slips her phone into the back pocket of her pants with a quick movement.
