Ariadna follows her gaze and opens her mouth.
“Wait… is that…?”
She doesn’t hesitate to whistle.
“Well, no wonder you slept with her. She’s hot.”
“Idiot,” Rebeca whispers desperately, her eyes shining. “You know perfectly well that I love her.”
The words come out before she can stop them, and for that split second, Rebeca blinks. She’s just realized what she’s said. What she’s just confessed.
Ariadna stares at her.
Then she looks toward the bar. Martina is laughing with the woman accompanying her as they wait for their drinks, her head thrown back, her throat exposed in a gesture Rebeca remembers all too clearly.
Then Ariadna looks back at Rebeca.
“Okay,” she says calmly, placing a hand on her forearm. “Let’s not panic.”
Rebeca takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” Ariadna adds, squeezing her arm. “Breathe.”
At that very moment, from across the room, Eva’s voice cuts through the music.
“Cora!”
Several heads turn.
“Cora!” she repeats enthusiastically, waving her hand. “What are you doing here?”
Time seems to stand still, and Rebeca closes her eyes for a second.
Everything has just gone to hell.
Chapter 15
The moment Eva shouts Cora’s name seems to split time into two imperfect halves. On one hand, the bar continues to pulse with a life of its own: the music vibrating through the floor, laughter erupting from scattered groups, bodies brushing against each other on the dance floor without asking permission or offering explanations. On the other, there is that small, suspended, almost unreal space where Martina and Rebeca’s gazes meet for the first time in earnest after what happened at the latter’s apartment. A meeting of eyes that lasts barely two seconds and yet is enough for the noise of the bar to become a distant hum.
Martina freezes. The glass she holds in her right hand stops halfway to her lips. For a moment, everything else loses its sharpness: Cora’s hand resting on her waist, the citrus scent of her cologne, Eva’s enthusiastic voice that keeps talking nonstop. Only Rebeca remains on the other side of the room, silhouetted against the brick wall, illuminated by the amber light streaming from the spotlights.
She sees her, and her chest tightens with a mixture of hunger and panic. Rebeca looks stunning. The dark green of her blouse hugs her shoulders with a delicacy that contrasts with the black leather jacket, which seems to have been cut to highlight the perfect curve of her neck. Her loose hair falls in waves that catch the light every time she turns her head, and her minimalmakeup—just that thin line of eyeliner and the warm gloss on her lips—makes her look more dangerous than ever. Martina feels the air catch in her throat. She’s so beautiful it almost hurts to look at her. “Damn.”
A spontaneous smile threatens to appear on Martina’s lips, but it dies before it’s born when she remembers she’s not alone. Next to Rebeca is the woman from the café, and in that moment she remembers how they laughed and shared that intimate space.
Eva continues talking enthusiastically, oblivious to the undercurrent that has just been unleashed.
“Girls, meet Cora,” she announces, turning toward the rest of the group with open arms. “We ran into each other a few weeks ago at work. I can’t believe we’ve met here!”
Cora responds with an elegant smile and plants a million kisses on their cheeks while Eva continues chattering, though her gaze instinctively wanders to Martina, because she knows exactly how she feels.
“We were at the same roundtable, and when you talked about queer fiction, I almost fell off my chair from the excitement.”
The rest of the conversation is drowned out by the noise of the music and overlapping voices. Because Martina and Rebeca keep looking at each other. There’s something in that look that neither of them knows how to interpret. Too many things left unsaid. Too many questions swirling around them, and neither dares to answer.
Martina decides to break the silence. She takes a step forward, moving away from Cora, who continues chatting with Eva, pretending not to notice.
“It seems Santander isn’t as big as I expected,” Martina remarks, with a hint of amusement in her voice. Though inside, she’s so tense she can barely bring herself to speak.
