“What’s wrong?” he asks, alarmed.
But Rebeca doesn’t answer right away; she keeps staring at the same spot, completely motionless.
Chapter 19
“I’ll hang up now, Cora. Let me know when you have any news.”
Martina utters the last words with a hint of weariness in her voice. She hangs up, and the silence that fills the kitchen seems to bring back everything she’s been through over the last few days.
She sets the phone down on the counter and stands still for a second, her palms flat against the granite. The afternoon light streams in through the window, filtering through as a golden strip that crosses the room and settles on the furniture, illuminating the grain as if they were old scars. Outside, distant sounds from the street can be heard, and the noise adds to the one already in her head.
Martina refocuses on what’s in front of her.
In the skillet, the sautéed vegetables give off a gentle aroma that fills the kitchen: thinly sliced zucchini, red and green peppers releasing their sweetness as they brown, sliced mushrooms soaking up the garlic and olive oil she’s cooking with. Next to them, the grilled chicken breasts are finishing up. It’s not an elaborate recipe, but she likes the feeling of cooking after a long day. Something that reminds her that, despite everything, she’s still capable of taking care of herself, even though lately that idea seems increasingly distant.
After the quick trip to Madrid, coming home should have been a kind of respite. However, ever since she crossed the line with Rebeca, everything seems to have shifted slightly out of place. Nothing fits inside her body. Everyday objects—the mug she always uses in the mornings, the sagging cushion on the sofa, the key turning in the lock—have taken on a strange quality, as if they belonged to another life that no longer belongs to her. As if someone had moved the furniture while she was away and now she has to learn all over again where everything is.
These past few days she has tried to get back into her routine. She has worked on the article late into the night, searching for the exact photo that captures others’ pain without seeming contrived. She has tried to convince herself that what happened on the beach won’t cause her any trouble. But the body isn’t so easily fooled. And certainly not the heart.
Rebeca and she have run into each other a couple of times in the building’s entrance hall since that night, with a tension growing between them every time they meet—a tension Martina begins to feel even before she opens the building’s door. It’s a constant pressure, an electric current that runs through the air whenever they’re near each other. And at night, when Julia is already asleep beside her, Martina lies staring at the ceiling and relives every second of what she experienced with her; the salty taste of Rebeca’s mouth, the muffled moan against her neck, the way her nails dug into her body as if she were afraid she would vanish.
She sighs as she flips the chicken breasts in the pan, the sizzling of the oil distracting her for a moment and giving her a breather.
Just then, she hears footsteps approaching down the hall.
“What did Cora tell you?” Julia asks as she appears in the kitchen. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail with a few dark strands escaping, and she’s wearing a light-colored shirt rolled up to her elbows. She leans slightly over the counter and takes an olive from the small bowl next to the sink.
Martina looks away from the frying pan for just a second.
“That they’ll probably accept the proposed changes,” she replies, turning slightly toward her. “It’s going to be a great feature. I think they’re going to really like it. They were very pleased with the proposed structure and the photos we chose.”
Julia chews the olive with a calm smile that lights up her eyes.
“I never doubted that,” Julia says confidently. “You’ve always known how to tell stories through images.”
For a second, Martina feels a strange twinge in her chest upon hearing that confidence. Julia has always believed in her work. She’s always been there to celebrate it, to remind her that it’s worth it when she herself doubted. And now that loyalty weighs on her like a debt she doesn’t know how to repay. As if every compliment were a reminder of everything she’s about to break.
“By the way,” Julia adds as she leans against the counter, “have you thought about what you want to do for your birthday?”
The question catches her off guard. Martina looks up suddenly.
Julia watches her with a broad smile, the kind that completely lights up her face and that for years has seemed to her like the best refuge in the world.
Martina shrugs slightly.
“Something simple,” she murmurs. “Maybe here at home. I don’t really feel like big parties.”
She looks down at the pan as she stirs the vegetables, and the steam rises to her face, hot and humid.
Julia nods enthusiastically.
“Great,” she exclaims, and gives the countertop a gentle pat. “Well, something at home. We can make that lasagna you like, and prepare a few dishes for the girls… something quiet, intimate. Like before.”
Her expression lights up with a sudden idea.
“We could invite Rebeca, too,” Julia suggests.
A knot forms instantly in Martina’s chest. For a second, she feels like she can’t breathe. She keeps her eyes fixed on the pan as she tries to control the reaction threatening to show on her face.
