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"Damn it." Claudia lets out a short, nervous laugh and shakes her head, straightening her clothes as she tries to pull herself together. "Come on, let's go," she says, flipping the stall latch before Laia can get a word in.

Both of them step out of the stall, and Claudia stops in front of the mirror while Laia hangs back, standing still and disoriented, with the feeling that she's swallowed her tongue and forgotten how to use it. Claudia turns to her with her hair back in place as though nothing happened, and when she sees that Laia looks catatonic, she walks over, tucks a couple of strands behind her ears, and straightens her collar.

"Let's go," she says, and opens the bathroom door. Laia runs her hands over her face and follows her, crossing the bar all the way to the exit, where Claudia retraces their steps and they walk back in silence until they reach Laia's car.

"A-are you—?" Laia tries to speak, but her body is still so wound up that she stops when she hears herself stutter, thinking she's pathetic.

"No, I'm not going out. I'm going to sleep. Are you okay to drive?"

What if I say no? Laia thinks. Would she invite herself up? Would she tell her to stay over at her place? What would happen then? Would they pick up where they left off? She doesn't think so—Claudia believes she doesn't want this, and she hasn't been able to correct her, but she's too overwhelmed to do it now, certain that only disjointed nonsense would come out if she opened her mouth.

"Yes," she says at last.

Claudia nods, pushes her hands into her coat pockets, and looks at her before turning away.

"Good night, Laia."

Laia can only raise her hand to wave goodbye, but Claudia doesn't see it—because her brain and her body seem to have come uncoupled, and she takes too long to make the motion.

Chapter 17

Saturday has finally arrived and Laia doesn't have to get up and go to work—or rather, she doesn't have to go to the same place where Claudia is, because since Tuesday, when the bathroom incident happened, the tension between them has become so suffocating that they don't even know how to talk to each other.

When Laia does her rounds, she walks past the pressing section without going in, praying as she approaches that Claudia won't be looking toward the hallway, but every single day she finds those amber eyes shining from behind a pressing iron, watching her as if Claudia knows the exact moment she's going to pass by. Every time, Laia's stomach tightens before she spins around and the floor feels unsteady beneath her. Then she raises a hand in greeting and Claudia returns the gesture from across the room. The only day they were forced to speak was Thursday afternoon in the parking lot, when Claudia was waiting for her beside her car with the door open, key in hand and her bag on the seat.

"You don't have to follow me. I'm not going out."

"Right," Laia said, barely able to hold her gaze without thinking about that mouth on her lips, devouring her with an intensity Laia doesn't believe you can feel from a casual hookup—Marta certainly never kissed her like that, or grabbed her by the back of the neck as if she wanted to possess her, or never let her go. Laia hadn't been sure which, because in that moment she'd had just enough neurons firing to breathe and keep from passing out. "You know I have to follow you."

"I know. And I'm saving you the trip. I don't feel like going out, I have a headache and I just want to rest—but do whatever you want."

Claudia got in the car and Laia hesitated as she watched her start the engine. She waited until Claudia drove off through the parking lot, and for the first time in months, she decided not to follow her. If Claudia went out and she didn't put it in the report, who was going to find out? She convinced herself it didn't matter for one day—even though what was really going on was that if she went out, she knew there was a very good chance Claudia would end the night with Nadia, and Laia couldn't bear to watch them together anymore. Not after what had happened between them.

She feels relief when Claudia shows up the next day on time, and even more so when she sees her clear-eyed, without that irritable expression she usually wears when she's been out late and has been drinking.

And now she's at home in her pajamas, eyes fixed on the drip coffee maker while it finishes brewing, her mind stuck in that damn bathroom of a bar she doesn't even remember the name of. She's so wound up about the whole thing. She doesn't know what happened—whether Claudia really wanted to kiss her or whether she only did it because Laia offered herself up and Claudia wanted to punish her. Either way, Claudia didn't end up with anyone that night the way she'd intended, because Laia remembers her words perfectly: I need someone to touch me and help me stop thinking. She wanted someone to take the edge off so her head would go quiet, and Laia gave her none of that—because the moment it got real, Claudia pulled away. Since then, Laia's mind won't stop spinning through every possible scenario—did Claudia actually think she didn't want it, or did she stop because she didn't enjoy kissing her?

Even though it seemed obvious that she did enjoy it, that she was having just as good a time as Laia was, Laia isn't sure, and she can't ask her either, because the mere thought of being close to her makes her stomach do somersaults and her tongue feel swollen, like she's been stung by a wasp.

"Laia! What are you doing, honey? You're making a mess everywhere," her mother says, walking into the kitchen.

Laia's eyes go wide and she stares at the coffee maker, unable to understand why the coffee is dripping into the carafe but also all over the counter beside it.

"I didn't—I don't know what happened," she says without moving, and her mother comes over with a frown and unplugs the machine.

"What happened is you put the coffee in without the filter," she says, lifting the lid to reveal a muddy pool of water with all the grounds floating in it.

"Oh, damn." Laia takes a step back and looks at the coffee canister, trying to mentally calculate how much money she's wasted with her carelessness.

"Sit down. I'll clean this up and make a fresh pot," her mother says.

"You don't have to, Mom. I'll take care of it."

"Laia, sit down, please."

It isn't a request, and Laia knows it from her tone and the look on her face. It's an order—or a subtle way of telling her to step aside before she makes another mess. She drops into one of the kitchen chairs, leans her back against the wall, and watches her mother move back and forth without any awareness of how much time passes, because before she knows it, Sonia is setting a cup of coffee in front of her.

"What's going on with you, Laia? You've been acting really strange all week," her mother asks, sitting down across the table.