Page 5

By the time she reaches her building, her feet hurt so badly that she takes off her shoes in the entryway and walks barefoot to the elevator, which carries her up to the penthouse her parents bought her when she finished her business degree and mistakenly believed she was going to become the devoted daughter dedicated to the family business. She walks in and hangs her coat on the multi-hook rack bolted to the wall behind the door, and then she stands in the middle of the living room for a few seconds, opening and closing her hands, not knowing what to do with them. She does this a lot lately—freezes wherever she happens to be and tries to decide what to do without managing it, as though she's so overloaded that her brain disconnects somehow and leaves her paralyzed and confused.

She finally manages to react—without knowing how long she's been standing there, because she's rarely conscious of slipping into that state—and goes straight to the bathroom and gets in the shower with the water so hot that when she steps out her skin is red.

When she's done, she puts on comfortable clothes and opens the wardrobe to choose what she'll wear tonight when she goes out. She settles on dark high-waisted trousers, an open-neck sweater, and one of the scarves she loves to wear. She lays the outfit on the dresser and stretches out on the bed, because being around her parents always leaves her drained, as though instead of sitting in a chair she's sprinted all the way from Mataró to Barcelona.

At ten-thirty that night, Claudia, sprawled on the couch killing time while she sketches coats on her tablet, gets a message from her friend Pol saying he's on his way to the club—one of the ones they've been going to a lot lately—where they're meeting tonight.

She gets up, dresses in the outfit she's chosen, leaves her hair down, and grabs her bag and her phone before heading out. It's not that she's particularly in the mood tonight, but she needs some air, some drinks to numb herself, and to get laid if the chance comes up—something that usually does, because Claudia has never had trouble picking someone up. On the contrary, there's something about her—and it's not just her looks—that attracts men and women equally, which is pretty inconvenient because she wants nothing to do with the former, and sometimes there's some daddy's boy who can't wrap his head around being turned down. That's why she prefers venues or exclusive parties where only people in the scene show up, and it's why she loves living in Barcelona so much: it doesn't matter what day of the week it is, there's always somewhere to go.

The exclusive club where they're meeting is a ten-minute walk from her building. Claudia has been here before, so she knows exactly where everything is and doesn't need to look around much to find her friend at the bar. Pol smiles when he sees her walking over, and she feels a sharp pang in the center of her chest. Pol is her only real friend, the only one she usually vents to, and even so, Claudia never tells him everything, because she's so used to keeping things inside that whatever hurts her most always stays there.

She smiles back, they kiss each other on the cheek, and Claudia leans against the bar beside him. A bartender appears almost immediately and she orders a gin and tonic for herself and whatever Pol is drinking, and when the man brings out the card reader, Claudia waves it off and pulls out a fifty-euro bill.

"You're carrying cash now?" her friend says, surprised.

The same age as Claudia, Pol is like her in that way—a kind of pampered man who puts everything on his dad's card—though he's more responsible and works afternoons at one of his family's car dealerships, always on time and always showing up. That doesn't make him better than her, though, because her friend always spends more than he earns.

"They turned off the tap." Claudia pockets her change and takes the first sip, grateful for that bitter taste that always seems to wake up all her senses at once.

Her friend blinks.

"You mean turned off completely? Like, you don't have a card?" he asks, somewhere between baffled and horrified, because imagining a situation like that for himself is simply inconceivable.

"No card, no salary—and on top of that, they've sentenced me to six months working at my aunt's factory."

"Your aunt who you haven't seen since you were a kid?" he asks, stunned, momentarily wondering if someone slipped something into his drink. "Wait, let me get my bearings, because I'm not following any of this. What did you do this time?"

Claudia smiles bitterly and shrugs.

"Nothing new. Just being myself, I guess. Apparently they've gotten tired of my attitude and put together a perfect plan to set me straight. I suppose I should be grateful they're at least not trying to send me to conversion therapy," she mutters, sarcasm heavy in her voice.

"Don't joke about that, it's the one thing they haven't tried yet," he snaps, completely serious. "Okay, so how does this work? Because I don't really get it. If you don't follow through at your job here in Barcelona, why would you do it at your aunt's company? Their plan is a disaster."

Claudia laughs—a short, dry laugh that doesn't reach her eyes, which hold nothing but sadness.

"It's a little more than that. They made me sign a contract. If I don't deliver, after those six months they push me out of the company, strip me of my shares, and forget I exist."

"Can they do that?" he asks, stunned. "Force you to sell your shares?"

"I signed it, so yes."

"Then why the hell did you? Have you lost your mind?"

Claudia shrugs and looks to her left, where a lot of people are dancing on the floor, and for a moment she thinks about doing the same—but her mind isn't numbed by alcohol yet, so she stays where she is.

"Hey, I'm serious. Why did you sign, Claudia?" Pol puts his hand on her arm. "One thing is them taking away your card. Another is threatening to leave you with nothing. Have you stopped to think about what happens if you don't follow through?"

"I don't care. I'll figure something out."

Claudia picks up her highball glass and drains the whole thing in one go, then orders another and starts to think about what she just said. Figure something out how? She doesn't even know what she wants—or she does know, and she's never had the nerve to plant her feet and push back—and with every year that passes like this she feels like it's already too late for everything, like there's no place for her anywhere. That's why she always has the feeling of living in a kind of limbo, turning her weeks into late nights, leaving her hungover with hellish mornings spent in a position she never wanted.

Pol looks at her for a moment, not knowing what to say. Even though they have things in common, they're nothing alike. He goes out almost every night because he's a hardcore party guy who loves sleeping with a different man every time, but he likes his job—he loves selling high-end cars and raking in absurdly high commissions for his knack at convincing someone they need to buy sand in the desert. His friend isn't like that. She's a thirty-four-year-old woman who's been lost for twenty years. Going out at night because the loneliness of her apartment suffocates her, and unable to sit in the chair she's been assigned in the family business since before she was born.

"You could work with me. As gorgeous as you are, you'd sell cars left and right to all those rich guys who don't know what to do with their money."

Claudia lets out a short laugh through her nose and kisses him on the cheek.

"I'll keep that in mind when I've got nothing left. Oh, and—did I mention they're also giving me a babysitter?"