8. Victoria
— ? —
Victoria
Breakfast was chaos in the best way.
The hotel restaurant had been taken over by my family.
Three long tables pushed together, overflowing with fruit and sweet pan dulce and platters of chilaquiles going cold because everyone was too busy talking to eat.
The aunts were arguing about something, all at once.
My father was making terrible jokes. Aunt Rosa was holding court at the head of the table, accepting tributes of food from everyone who passed.
I sat between Daniela and a cousin, trying to disappear into my eggs.
“You look tired,” Daniela murmured. “Rough night?”
“Storm kept me up.”
She gave me a look that said she didn’t believe me for a second. “The storm. Right.”
“Dani-”
“I’m not pushing. I’m just saying.” She lowered her voice. “He slept on the floor, didn’t he?”
I didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“Interesting,” she said, and turned back to her coffee.
Timothy was at the other end of the table, wedged between two of my aunts. They were teaching him something, laughing at his attempts, patting his arm every time he got something wrong. He was smiling - really smiling - and for a moment I could almost see the man I’d fallen in love with.
The man who used to look at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
Where did you go? I thought, watching him charm my family. And why are you only coming back now?
***
The pool was crowded by noon.
The aunts had claimed the best loungers, setting up an elaborate domino tournament at the poolside tables. Children splashed in the shallow end. My father was attempting to teach Alejandra’s fiancé the finer points of floating, which mostly involved a lot of arm-waving and creative profanity.
I found a lounger in the shade and tried to read.
The words blurred on the page.
Every few minutes, my eyes drifted back to Timothy.
He was in the pool with my cousins, playing some kind of water game that involved a lot of shouting. His hair was wet, slicked back from his face. Water ran down his shoulders, his chest, catching the light in ways that made my stomach do things it had no business doing.
Stop looking at him.
I forced my eyes back to my book.
You’re supposed to be angry. You’re supposed to be done.
But I wasn’t done. That was the horrible truth of it. Four months of separation hadn’t killed whatever I felt for him. It had just pushed it underground, where it festered and grew and waited for exactly this moment - for one dark room and one almost-kiss to bring it all rushing back.
Then Timothy pulled himself out of the pool at the edge.
And I forgot what I was thinking mid-thought.
Five years of marriage. I’d seen him naked a thousand times. But I hadn’t looked in years. Hadn’t let myself really see him.
The line of his shoulders. The definition of his chest. The way water ran down his stomach as he stood there.
I wasn’t the only one looking.
Two of Alejandra’s bridesmaids were stationed at the swim-up bar, their heads bent together in conversation. One of them wasn’t even pretending to hide her stare. She said something to her friend, and they both giggled, eyes fixed on my husband.
My grip tightened on my book.
We’re getting divorced, I reminded myself. I don’t get to be jealous. I don’t-
But the jealousy didn’t listen.
It curled hot and irrational in my stomach, watching these women watch him. Watching them want what used to be mine.
***
Timothy disappeared toward the bar.
I tracked him without meaning to, watching him navigate around the aunts, exchange a few words with the bartender. He ordered something, waited while it was made, then walked back toward the loungers.
Toward me.
He stopped beside my chair and held out a glass.
Not a margarita like everyone else was holding. A paloma with mezcal, extra lime, the rim salted only halfway.
My drink.
The specific one I ordered maybe twice a year. The one nobody ever remembered.
I stared at it instead of taking it.
“When was the last time you remembered anything about me?”
It came out sharper than I meant. The jealousy was still burning, and the kindness felt like a trick. Like he was trying to erase five years of neglect with one cocktail.
He didn’t defend himself.
Just set the glass beside my lounger.
“I know I don’t deserve for you to believe me yet.” His voice was quiet. Serious. “But I’m going to keep proving it anyway.”
He walked away before I could respond.
***
The bolder bridesmaid made her move twenty minutes later.
I watched her cross the pool deck toward Timothy, all swaying hips and lowered lashes. She said something that made him glance up from his conversation with my uncle. Laughed at her own joke, her hand finding his arm.
She leaned in close. Close enough that the water still glistening on his chest might brush against her.
Jealousy clawed up my throat, hot and irrational.
I have no right to this. We’re getting divorced. I don’t get to-
I couldn’t look away.
She was touching him. Touching my husband, right there in front of everyone, while my whole family watched.
And then Timothy excused himself mid-sentence.
He walked away from her without a backward glance.
Walked back to me.
Sat down beside my lounger.
Close enough that his shoulder brushed mine.
“Why don’t you go with them?” I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. “They haven’t taken their eyes off you all day.”
“Because I want to be with my wife.”
My heart did something traitorous and enormous.
I turned to look at him. He was watching me, water still dripping from his hair, and there was nothing polished or practiced about his expression. Just raw honesty. Just wanting.
He turned them down.
He came back to me.
***
“You’re burning.”
I looked up from my book. Timothy was standing over me, holding a bottle of sunscreen.
“I’m fine.”
“Your shoulders are pink.”
“I said I’m fine-”
“Victoria.” His voice was patient. Infuriatingly patient. “Let me get your back. Unless you want to spend Alejandra’s wedding looking like a lobster.”
I glared at him.
He waited.
The aunts were watching. I could feel their eyes on us, cataloging every interaction, drawing conclusions I didn’t want them to draw.
“Fine.” I turned around, presenting my back to him. “Make it quick.”
His hands were warm when they landed on my shoulders.
I’d forgotten how good he was at this. How his thumbs knew exactly where to press, finding knots I didn’t know I was carrying. The sunscreen was just an excuse - he was massaging my shoulders, working the tension out of muscles that had been tight for months.
My eyes closed before I could stop them.
“You’re holding all your stress here,” he murmured, his thumbs pressing at the base of my neck. “You’ve always done that.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t pretend you know me.”
His hands stilled. “I do know you.”
“You know the version of me you married. The one who waited up for you. The one who made excuses.” I kept my eyes closed. Couldn’t look at him. “That woman is gone.”
“I know.” His hands resumed their movement, gentler now. “I’m trying to meet the one who’s still here.”
The words cracked something in my chest.
I opened my eyes.
He was right there. Close enough that I could see the water droplets still clinging to his eyelashes. Close enough that if I turned my head-
And there was the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth.
He’d seen me watching the bridesmaids watch him.
He knew.
A cannonball splash from the pool soaked us both, a cousin surfacing with a triumphant whoop.
Timothy pulled back, laughing.
I sat there, dripping, furious at the interruption and furious at myself for being furious.
***
Dinner that night was on the beach.
Long tables set up in the sand, tiki torches flickering, the ocean a dark murmur beyond the firelight. My family filled every seat, passing plates of food, shouting over each other.
Timothy sat beside me.
His knee touched mine under the table.
I didn’t move away.
The conversation washed over us - stories about Aunt Rosa’s youth, predictions for Alejandra’s marriage, debates about which cousin made the best traditional dishes. Timothy listened. Asked questions. Laughed at the right moments.
And all the while, his knee stayed pressed against mine.
I was hyperaware of that single point of contact. The warmth of him through the fabric of our clothes. The casual intimacy of it, like we were still the couple everyone believed us to be.
Aunt Rosa’s hand closed around my wrist.
I looked up. She was studying me with those sharp, knowing eyes.
Then she turned my hand over, examining the ring in the candlelight.
“That is not your ring, mija,” she said, her voice low enough that only I could hear.
My stomach dropped.
“I - it’s-”
“I have known your ring for five years. This is not it.” She held my gaze. “Where is the real one?”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think of a lie fast enough.
Aunt Rosa studied my face for a long moment. Whatever she saw there made something shift in her expression. Understanding, maybe. Or pity.
Then she released my hand and said, loud enough for the table: “Beautiful earrings tonight. Your mother has good taste.”
The conversation moved on.
But Aunt Rosa’s eyes stayed sharp. Watching. Knowing.
A taxi pulled up at the edge of the beach.
My blood went cold.
Michelle stepped out in white linen, sunglasses in her hair, waving at the table like she was arriving at her own party.
“Did you miss me?”