“Sure,” she manages to say. She clears her throat, pretending it’s because of the steam. “That would be great. I’m sure she’d love to.”
She grabs a dish towel and wipes her hands with a deliberately calm gesture, even though her heart is pounding.
Julia doesn’t seem to notice anything strange. She leans a little closer to her and lowers her voice as if sharing a secret.
“Yeah, I think she could use a little break. I’m sure she’s working like crazy,” Julia says, as if she’s just imagining it. “And besides, it would be nice. The three of us celebrating your birthday together. Just like the old days, right?”
The joke falls flat, but it cuts through Martina like a knife. “The old days.” The nights when the three of them would go outto bars downtown, laugh until their stomachs hurt, and shout secrets to each other over the music. The old days when Rebeca and she loved each other without reservation. The old days that ended in tears and a final goodbye.
Martina swallows hard.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “Just like in the old days.”
Julia moves a little closer. She leans toward Martina and gives her a soft kiss on the cheek. The gesture is quick, everyday, familiar. Then she heads toward the table to start setting the plates.
Martina stands still for a few seconds. She watches her as she moves through the kitchen with familiarity. Julia opens a drawer, takes out the cutlery, sets the glasses… She does it with an almost mechanical calm, as if that domestic ritual were etched into her memory after so many years of sharing the same home.
And as she watches her, Martina’s thoughts begin to drift toward an uncomfortable place. Toward that conversation she’s been putting off for days. She knows she should have it. She’s known it for a long time. But every time the moment approaches, something seems to get in the way: a phone call, a meeting, some excuse or another. Perhaps, deep down, there’s also something else. A visceral fear. Because facing that conversation means acknowledging that she has failed at love once again.
But the problem is that the spark between them is gone.
She watches her as Julia places the napkins with a distracted air. For years, she believed that change was natural. That all relationships evolve. That love can also become adifferent kind of companionship. She accepted it as part of the passage of time. As if desire had an expiration date.
But since Rebeca has reappeared in her life, that explanation has begun to falter. Because what she has felt these past few days is different. More intense. More alive. The touch of her fingers on the beach, the salty taste of her skin on her tongue, the way her breath caught when Martina brushed her lips against the nape of her neck, the moan that escaped her throat when their bodies met again. All of that has awakened something she thought was long gone. And when she compares it to what she feels now, the difference is impossible to ignore.
She’s surprised to find herself thinking about it with a clarity that stings her with guilt. Because Julia doesn’t deserve that. She doesn’t deserve to be compared. Or measured against anyone. She doesn’t deserve for Martina to look at her while she’s setting the table and think of another woman who makes her tremble just by looking at her.
Martina takes a slow breath, trying to calm the pulse throbbing in her temples.
She knows she shouldn’t drag this out any longer. She knows the right thing to do is to speak up. To tell the truth. Even if that truth changes everything. Even if it means breaking something that has long been her home. Even if it means losing the security of Julia’s arms for the uncertainty of lips she once left behind.
She turns off the stove for good and divides the food between two plates. And when Julia comes back into the kitchen to grab the water pitcher, Martina looks up.
“Julia.”
She stops with the pitcher in her hand.
“Yes?”
Martina feels the tension settle in her chest.
“I think we need to talk about something.”
Martina opens her mouth to continue, but before she can get a word out, Julia’s phone starts ringing on the counter, and the sound shatters the moment like glass.
They both look at the screen at the same time.
“I have to take this call, sorry,” she says as she picks up the phone. “I won’t be long, I promise. Are you serving the food?”
Martina keeps a calm expression, though inside she’s in turmoil.
“Sure.”
Julia is already walking toward the living room as she answers.
“Yes, go ahead.”
Silence fills the kitchen once more. Martina presses her lips together tightly. For a second, she stands completely still, the plate still in her hand, and the steam from the food rises in thin wisps that dissipate into the air.
