Chapter 28 #2
Because what the hell did “working” even mean?
Did it mean she’d live? Did it mean she’d stop forgetting words mid-sentence, or that the color would come back to her cheeks, or that the beeping machines and IV lines would eventually go away?
Or did it just mean she was stable enough not to scare us yet?
Stable enough for me to walk out of this room and pretend I hadn’t wasted months avoiding it?
I didn’t ask. Instead I nodded like an idiot and handed her another slice of mango as if fruit made this easier.
She chewed slowly. It looked like it took effort.
“You know,” she said between bites, “they have me doing stretches now. Some woman with a ponytail comes in, makes me sit up straighter. Says it’s to help with circulation.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Ponytail woman sounds pushy.”
“She is.” My mom laughed, and it made me ache. “But nice.”
That word—nice—landed in my chest like a bruise. Because she said it with warmth, no bitterness. And here I was, her daughter, sitting across from her with my heart stuck in my throat and nothing to show for it but guilt and a plastic fork.
I shifted in the chair. “Do they still bring you the yellow blanket? The one from home?”
“They wash it every other day and bring it to me warm.” She nodded. “Your sister makes them.”
That sounded like Isa.
I stared at my hands. At the tiny crease in my skirt where my knee was bent.
At anything that wasn’t her. Because the thing no one told you about showing up late was that when you finally did, everyone had already softened around your absence.
They’d adapted. Moved on. Learned to be okay without you.
And you just had to sit there smiling, pretending the time you lost wasn’t echoing off every word.
This wasn’t how I wanted to feel. I wanted to make up for the time I’d missed, even if it was impossible.
So I stayed an hour.
Then two.
I told her more about Lucia’s obsession with ducks, and about the new nurse with the tattoo she disapproved of, and Marco.
Well. Sort of.
I told her I was staying with someone, and I said it fast, like if I said it quickly enough she wouldn’t be able to ask questions or make a face or do the thing she always did when she knew I was hiding something—which was, you know, like, 90 percent of the time.
Mama didn’t say anything right away. She just looked at me with the same suspicious squint she used to give me in high school when I’d come home “from the library” smelling like tequila and someone else’s cologne. Like she already knew and was just letting me embarrass myself first.
“Un amigo?” she asked, voice all innocent, which was bullshit, because my mother had never been innocent a day in her life.
“Kind of,” I said, which wasn’t an answer, and we both knew it.
She took another bite of mango and chewed slowly, watching me like I was a telenovela she already knew the ending to but kept watching anyway.
I stared at the floor. At the corner of her blanket. At the peeling label on the water bottle in my hand.
“It’s not like that,” I said. “It’s not . . . serious. It’s . . . complicated.”
“Complicated,” she repeated.
I nodded. “Very complicated.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is he handsome at least?”
I groaned. “Oh my God, Mama—”
“I’m dying—I get to ask.”
“You said you’re better!”
“Dying slower then,” she corrected, waving her hand like I was being dramatic. “So? Is he?”
I hesitated. I smiled. “He’s very handsome.”
“Tell me more.”
I took in a deep breath. “He’s really tall. Has these really blue eyes. Gringo. Obviously. The kind that says ‘ma’am’ to waiters.”
“I like him already.”
That was all she needed. A “ma’am” and some blue eyes.
I didn’t say anything else about him. I could’ve.
Could’ve told her about how he never left the apartment without checking every single lock twice, or how he made coffee in the exact same way every morning like it was part of his DNA.
Could’ve told her he didn’t speak unless it mattered, and sometimes that drove me insane, but other times it made me listen closer.
Could’ve told her living with him felt like being examined through a microscope that never blinked.
But I didn’t.
Instead I peeled another slice of mango and stayed a little while longer.
On the way home, I passed, like, six bodegas advertising vodka.
One of them had a little chalkboard sign that read “coldest in town” as if that were supposed to be charming.
Another had the kind of handwritten poster that looked like it’d been there since 2003.
Faded letters and half a corner missing. They were everywhere.
And all I could think was, it’d be so easy.
Just one stop. One bottle. One lie.
The past few years had been a blur, honestly—one big, vodka-fueled coping mechanism. Only because I’d thought it was totally fine to be a mess if your mom was sick. Sympathy made people blind—even yourself.
Cillian hadn’t minded. Hell, he’d practically sponsored my downward spiral. It was easy to see why now. A tipsy wife was easy to manipulate, easy to control. Easier to convince her to look the other way.
But now? Four weeks sober, and holy shit, was I feeling every second of it.
Four weeks without a drink should’ve felt like a victory. Instead it felt like waiting for a bomb to go off. Because I knew myself. I knew how easily I’d slip back into old habits. One drink, and I’d be right back to square one, looking for answers at the bottom of a bottle.
Which was probably why I was now standing outside José’s bodega like a complete psycho, bargaining with myself not to walk straight in and grab the nearest bottle.
The door jingled loudly as I stepped inside, and warm air hit me, dragging memories with it—the smell of stale coffee, cheap snacks, and overpriced regrets. José looked up from behind the counter, utterly unfazed.
“Ah, mi amor, you’re still alive,” he said dryly.
I smirked. “Disappointed?”
“Not yet.”
I moved toward the counter, avoiding the liquor shelves. Instead I asked for cigarettes. If I was going to regress into old habits, I could at least skip the alcohol this time.
“That it?”
“No,” I said, grabbing a bag of Cheetos off the shelf, because if I was making questionable choices tonight, I might as well go all in.
Then I pulled out a wad of cash I’d withdrawn from the card Marco had given me and dropped it dramatically in front of him.
“For this”—I gestured to the cigarettes and snacks—“and the rest.”
José stared at the money, counting silently. Three stacks, heavy with debts I’d avoided repaying for far too long. He raised an eyebrow. “You finally paying up?”
I shrugged. “Figured it was overdue.”
He sighed, stuffing the cash into the register. “Never thought I’d live to see the day.”
I smirked, taking the bag. “Well, life’s full of surprises.”
I stepped back outside into the cold with the cigarette pack tucked under my arm. I hadn’t smoked in weeks either, but tonight wasn’t about rules. Tonight was about not walking out with a bottle of vodka and a lie I’d hate myself for in the morning.
Small victories.
I didn’t light one. I just stood there with the bag of Cheetos crinkling in my hand and the plastic-wrapped box of nicotine burning a hole in my conscience.
Four weeks sober. Thirty days and some change. And yet here I was, back in front of José’s as if muscle memory had dragged me here. As if my body hadn’t caught up with my brain, or maybe it was the other way around.
I used to come here at two in the morning, in flip-flops and a hoodie, swiping whatever cash I had and hoping José wouldn’t ask questions.
He never did. He didn’t need to. He’d just hand me the bottle, throw in some gum, and say, “Don’t die, yeah?
” I’d tell him that wasn’t in the plans.
But we both knew I didn’t plan that far ahead.
I sat on the curb outside, not caring if it made me look pathetic. New York didn’t blink at girls like me anymore. Girls with smeared eyeliner, cracked knuckles, too many keys on their ring, and not enough places to call home.
I popped open the Cheetos and ate three just to give my hands something to do.
The truth was, I was scared. Not of drinking again, but of how easy it still was to want to. How quickly it all came back. The craving. The permission. The ability to justify anything if I made it sound logical enough. Just one. Just tonight. Just to shut your brain up for five seconds.
But I didn’t do it.
I sat on the curb and let it suck. Let it be cold. Let it be uncomfortable.
Because that was part of it too.
Letting it suck without numbing it.
Letting it pass.
And maybe that was growth. Or maybe I’d just gotten better at surviving the craving.
Either way, I was still here.
Still sober.
Still hungry.
Still angry.
Still me.
And for tonight, that was enough.
When I got back home, my body felt like it had run a marathon—or fought one hell of a losing battle against my cravings. I was exhausted.
Withdrawal was a bitch.
I tossed my bag onto the kitchen counter and headed straight to the shower, hoping the hot water might wash away the mental gymnastics I’d done all day just to avoid buying a bottle.
Maybe tomorrow would be easier. Maybe I’d wake up and finally stop bargaining with myself about something so stupidly simple as not drinking.
I stepped into the shower, turned the water scalding-hot, and let it burn away at least some of the anxiety clinging to my skin.
Then a crash echoed through the apartment.
I froze, panic slamming in my chest.
My body decided to move without consulting my brain first, which admittedly wasn’t new.
Panic kicked in on pure instinct—the kind of panic that had been hardwired into me way before I became someone who had to consider the moral implications of walking into a liquor store.
My heart jumped straight into my throat, lodging itself there as I yanked the shower door open and stepped onto freezing-cold tile.
My towel was near strangling me, hair dripping uncomfortably onto my shoulders, but priorities, right?
Because clearly, I wasn’t alone.
I grabbed the first thing I could find: a can of dry shampoo. Not ideal. Not even slightly threatening. But it was heavy and metallic and vaguely weapon-shaped, so it would have to do. I’d fought off worse with less. Emotionally, at least.
My legs were still wet, feet slipping slightly on the tile as I padded out of the bathroom, towel knotted tight at my chest, every nerve in my body on full alert.
Someone’s in the apartment.
And yeah, maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was Marco.
Because if it wasn’t him?
Then I was half-naked, unarmed, and ready to defend my life with a can of fucking Batiste.
I crept toward the hallway, heart pounding, breath shallow, trying not to think about how bad it would look if I died like this. Wet hair. Cheeks flushed. No clothes.
Another sound, this time closer. I held my breath. Took one more step.
And then I saw him.
Marco.
I deflated at once, slumping back against the wall as if my lungs had only just remembered how to work. I let out a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh and not quite a curse—somewhere between “thank God” and “I’m going to kill you.”
“You scared the shit out of me!” I snapped, rounding the corner into the kitchen to find him standing near the door, back pressed rigid against the wall as if it were holding him upright.
He didn’t say a word to me, nor even bother to look up from the floor.
I’d seen Marco annoyed, smug, furious—even slightly amused once—but never like this. He looked like he was physically restraining himself from combusting right there in my hallway. He was breathing in that unsettling way, as if someone had given him instructions on how not to lose his shit.
Something was definitely not right.
For a split second, I hesitated.
“Marco?” I said, attempting authority and failing spectacularly.
Still nothing. Just that awful, distant stare. Like he wasn’t seeing me but instead was seeing something else entirely, somewhere faraway and way worse than whatever was happening in the hallway.
I reached out carefully and laid my hand against his wrist.
He didn’t move, but his skin jumped under my fingers. For a second, I felt him shaking.
“What’s going on with you?” I wondered, still holding his wrist as if I could tether him here with just that one point of contact. “You’re scaring me. So maybe . . . maybe come back now? To this room? With me?”
He blinked.
Once.
Then again. Like he was rebooting.
He pulled his hand away from mine. Not rough, but fast. He stepped back from the wall, posture stiff, eyes still not quite meeting mine.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Bull. Shit.
“No, you’re not,” I snapped, because the fear was turning into frustration now, and frustration was easier to manage. “You just went full statue mode. I thought I was going to have to knock you out with a Swiffer.”
“I said I’m fine.” His jaw twitched. “Go get dressed, Valentina.”
For the first time I was sure he wasn’t fighting me—he was fighting himself; battling something invisible I couldn’t begin to understand.
“I’m serious,” I pressed again. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s nothing,” he repeated stiffly. “Go put some clothes on.”
I scoffed, hoping sarcasm might snap him out of it. “What, is my bare shoulder offending you, mijo?”
His neck stiffened at the nickname. He didn’t turn around to say anything to me. Instead he grabbed his keys and said, “I need a minute.”
And then he was gone as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t just watched him go stiff and weird in the middle of my hallway like someone had pulled the pin out of him and forgotten to yell, “Duck!”
I stood there dripping on the tile, towel slipping, hair still wet. I didn’t know if I was pissed, worried, or just thrown—probably all three. And I had no idea what he meant by “a minute.” A minute to breathe? A minute to calm down? A minute to pretend nothing had happened?
Whatever it was, it was vague.
The next day, the mirrors were gone.