“They’re no good for you,” Brooke murmurs. “You know I’m only saying this because I love you, right?”
Heat pricks behind Valeria’s eyes, not from sadness but from a sharp, throbbing anger. It’s the one thing she hates about herself, that she can’t be angry without tears showing up, too.
“Oh, don’t cry,” Brooke coos. “You’ll make better friends. I’ll make sure of it.” She kisses Valeria again, soft and final, before turning to the bed and grabbing Valeria’s things, shoving them into her bag.
Valeria watches, frozen, fighting the urge to tell her to stop, because sheknows the moment she says it, everything will go downhill. She watches Brooke for one beat too long before the words slip out anyway.
“Brooke, stop,” she says in barely a whisper.
Brooke freezes for a second. But in an instant, she’s reaching for more, stuffing the rest of Valeria’s clothes into the bag.
“Stop,” Valeria says again, louder this time.
Brooke exhales sharply, her shoulders dropping. “You’re not staying.”
“You can trust me around them. Youknowthis,” Valeria says, her voice pleading.
“Valeria, put your shit away.” The words aren’t shouted, but the warning inside them is unmistakable. Usually, this would be the point where Valeria caves, but tonight, something in her is simply out.
Their arguments always follow the same pattern: Valeria stays quiet, suppressing everything, trying to fix whatever can be fixed—even the things that can’t. Brooke refuses to budge until Valeria eventually gives up, and they either let it die or explode into a screaming match. There is never a middle ground. Brooke doesn’t know the concept of moderation. Some days, Valeria has the emotional reserves to keep the peace, but tonight, she has nothing left. The whole weekend has been a never-ending argument that started the moment Brooke invited herself to the cabin, fueled by her overall bad attitude throughout their stay. Every second since they got here has drained Valeria, leaving her hollow and exhausted.
Valeria’s throat is tight when she speaks, but the words come anyway. “No. I’m not leaving.”
She walks to the bed, crawls beneath the covers, and curls onto her side, silently praying Brooke will finish packing quickly and leave. Not a second passes beforeBrooke yanks the blanket away. Her fingers clamp around Valeria’s wrists, and she drags her off the bed.
“What the fuck!” Valeria shouts, twisting against Brooke’s grip.
Panic surges in Valeria’s chest as she remembers the many times Brooke has lost control. Memories of Brooke’s hands shoving Valeria hard against a wall, and objects flying past her head flash across her mind, but she tries not to focus on that right now.
Brooke has never hit her, not outright, but the fear of that possibility lurks constantly in the back of Valeria’s mind. It’s why she swallows so much of her autonomy, why she lets things slide, and why she tries so hard to keep the peace.
The girls think she doesn’t see it, but she does. She sees all of it. She just tries to avoid conflict, because as much as Brooke’s volatility scares her, there are good parts, too. Beautiful parts.
The girls don’t see how Brooke goes out of her way to make each day special, or how she brings Valeria flowers every Thursday, just because. They don’t see how attentive she can be, how generous she is—Valeria barely has time to look twice at something before Brooke slips it into her cart, deciding Valeria needs it because she stared at it for more than five seconds. They don’t see how thoughtful she is, in ways that sometimes make Valeria feel cherished beyond measure, like when she’s had a long day at work and Brooke sets wine out for her and either cooks or orders in so Valeria doesn’t need to worry about it.
That’s the sort of thoughtfulness Valeria should have shown tonight. She should have had more patience. She should not have pushed Brooke into this angry corner or let exhaustion win.
God, Valeria thinks, voice cracking inside her own mind.I should have known better.
The sting of Brooke’s nails tearing into Valeria’s skin pulls her from her thoughts.
“Baby, you’re hurting me,” she whispers, her voice breaking, but Brooke doesn’t loosen her grip. Her nails dig deeper into Valeria’s skin as she holds on, and tears gather at the corners of Valeria’s eyes.
Brooke’s deep blue gaze is fixed on her with such raw anger that it chills Valeria to her core. The softness Brooke usually shows her, the gentleness Valeria has clung to for years, is nowhere in sight. The eyes staring back at her are unfamiliar.
Valeria stops struggling, but Brooke’s nails sink deeper until she shoves Valeria’s arms down with an angry scoff.
A shaky breath rips through Valeria’s chest. She looks down at her wrists and sees the outline of Brooke’s nails etched into her skin, small beads of blood forming.
“I’m bleeding,” she whispers. It’s barely audible, meant more for herself than anyone else, but Brooke hears it and a flicker of worry flashes across her face. She’s never drawn blood from Valeria before.
Brooke reaches for her wrist, and Valeria instinctively flinches. Brooke tries again, and this time Valeria doesn’t resist. Brooke inspects the marks, frowning as she lifts Valeria’s wrists close to her lips.
“Barely,” she says, gently kissing each wrist. “I’m sorry,” she says before turning away.
She starts talking—something about packing, about timing—but her words slide into meaningless sound. As if Brooke suddenly started speaking alanguage Valeria doesn’t recognize. Her ears ring, and her mind detaches until it feels suspended outside her own body while Brooke’s voice fades into an unrecognizable hum and the room starts to feel slightly off, like she’s inside a picture frame that’s hung askew.
Valeria doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting there staring blankly at the dark stretch of forest outside the window when the mattress dips beside her. Brooke sits, composed as ever, and slips an arm around Valeria in a tight side hug. Valeria’s body recoils, rejecting the familiarity that suddenly feels wrong.
