Camila 12:26 p.m.:
Any lunch plans?
Valeria holds out her protein shake and sends her a picture.
Camila 12:26 p.m.:
Tragic. Want to grab lunch? I’m meeting Ella about a project in a bit, so I’m around.
Valeria looks at her shake, and her belly grumbles. An actual mealdoessound nice. Plus, she still has fifty minutes to kill before her next appointment.
Valeria 12:26 p.m.:
That sounds great, actually. There’s a Venezuelan food truck parked down the street from the clinic. Does that sound good?
Camila 12:28 p.m.:
Sounds perfect. I’ll meet you there. Send me the name.
Valeria 12:29 p.m.:
MaJo’s Arepas
Valeria grabs her bag and walks the five minutes to the food truck. Halfway there, she considers texting Brooke—a quickHey, I’m grabbing food with Camila. Her fingers brush her phone in her pocket, but shestops herself.
She’s allowed to see friends. She wouldn’t text Brooke if she were meeting one of the girls. The logic doesn’t sit entirely right, but she lets it settle anyway and keeps walking, grounding herself in the fact that she’s doing nothing wrong.
MaJo’s Arepas is one of Valeria’s favorite places. When work isn’t chaotic, she comes here during her lunch hour. A little retreat to refuel, sometimes journal.
“Hi, Vale,” Maria Jose—the food truck owner—says the moment she spots her, her face lighting up. “I was wondering where my favorite regular had disappeared to.”
Valeria laughs. “You say that to everyone! But I’ll accept it,” she says with an assertive nod. “The clinic has been a bit hectic lately.”
MaJo’s eyes soften. “No rest for the wicked. You want your favorite?”
“Yeah,” Valeria says, glancing toward the back of the truck, hoping to spot Camila. “But I’m meeting a friend, so I’ll wait to order until she’s here.”
“Alright, mi niña,” MaJo says gently. “Take your time.”
Valeria heads toward the food court area. A few months ago, a bunch of food truck owners decided to build a tiny open-air dining room right in the center of town for the summer. The setup is a little unique—a semicircle of food trucks gathered around a shared seating space in the middle.
When Valeria reaches her favorite table, she drops into one of the chairs and thumbs through social media while she waits for Camila. She scrolls for a few minutes, nothing catching her attention until a video of Camila restoring an old painting pops up on her feed.
Camila moves with such patience—tiny brushstrokes filling even smaller cracks with paint—and hervoice comes through Valeria’s phone so softly and soothingly that it almost pulls her under.
It’s funny seeing her like this, calm and meticulous, knowing the full-on panic spirals she easily goes into when it comes to Miso.
The comments underneath her videos are a whole mix: people calling her talented, others begging for more restoration videos, and then the sapphics who’ve somehow turned the whole thing into a thirst trap. Half of them swoon over her voice, and the other half over her hands and what “magic” they could probably do off the canvas. The internet is a wild place, honestly. Camila does have nice hands, though. Valeria pulls her phone in close, examining them. They are veiny and toned, but somehow still delicate, even with all the tattoos. Valeria can see why women obsess over them.
“Hey,” says a voice Valeria immediately recognizes as Camila’s. Even with the recognition, Valeria still jumps in her chair, slightly embarrassed.
“Sorry,” Camila says through a shaky laugh, rubbing at the back of her neck. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You looked ... really absorbed. Everything okay?” she asks as she sets a cup of coffee in front of Valeria.
Valeria flips her phone. “Just watching one of your videos.”
“Oh God,” Camila groans, rubbing her forehead. “Please tell me it wasn’t the one where I spent five minutes ranting about varnish.”
“Exactly that one,” Valeria lies, letting the corner of her mouth curl into a teasing smile.
