30. Valentina
— ? —
Valentina
I last four more nights in the motel.
Four nights of staring at that key on my nightstand. Four nights of weighing independence against loneliness, pride against practicality, fear against want.
On the fifth morning, I call him.
“If I use this key, I’m paying something. Utilities, groceries, I don’t care. I’m not a guest.”
A pause. Then: “We’ll fight about that later. Just come.”
Moving day is tiny.
Everything I own fits in the trunk of my car with room to spare. Garbage bags from the day Sebastian threw me out. A few things I bought with waitress money. That’s it. My entire life, portable.
Marianna helps me carry boxes. Eric’s driver appears to assist, but only after I’ve already done most of the work. Eric himself stays at the apartment, waiting, like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard I’ll change my mind.
He’s not wrong.
Walking through his front door with my sad collection of belongings feels surreal. The contrast is brutal. My garbage bags against his designer furniture. My Goodwill clothes against his walk-in closet. My nothing against his everything.
“Stop overthinking,” he says, reading my face.
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’re looking around and calculating how much everything costs and deciding you don’t belong here.”
“I don’t-”
“You belong wherever I am.” He takes my hand. Leads me through the apartment. “Come. I want to show you something.”
He brings me to a room I’ve never seen before. A small study, lined with bookshelves, with a desk by the window that overlooks the city.
“This is yours,” he says.
“What?”
“Your office. For your work. For whatever you need.” He watches me with an expression I can’t quite read. “I had it set up this week. I hope that’s okay.”
My throat closes. I walk into the room, running my fingers over the desk, the bookshelves, the comfortable chair positioned to catch the light.
“Eric, this is…”
“Too much? I can redo it. Whatever you want.”
“No.” I turn to face him. “It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect.”
He exhales. Tension leaving his shoulders I didn’t know he was holding.
“Good. Now. Let’s unpack.”
We spend the afternoon putting away my things. It doesn’t take long. My clothes fill one small section of his closet. My toiletries take up a single drawer in his bathroom. Everything else fits in the office.
But watching him make space for me, literally and metaphorically, does something to my chest.
“Left side of the sink,” I say when we’re organizing the bathroom. “And the left side of the bed.”
“Done.”
“And I’m cooking dinner at least three nights a week. I’m not going to be someone who just takes up space.”
“Val-”
“I mean it, Eric. This works because we’re partners. Equals. Not because you rescue me and I’m grateful.”
He sets down the towel he was folding. Crosses to me.
“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s not what this is. That’s never what this was.”
I search his face. Looking for the lie. Looking for the catch.
I don’t find it.
***
Eric
She looks terrified.
She’s been terrified all day, trying to hide it, but I see it in the way she moves. Careful. Like she’s afraid of breaking something. Like she doesn’t quite believe any of this is real.
I want to tell her it’s real. I want to tell her she’s home now, that I’m never going to let anyone hurt her again, that she can stop running, stop fighting, stop surviving.
But I know those words won’t help. Words didn’t help my mother after my father left. Only time helped. Only proof.
So instead of telling her, I show her.
I cook dinner while she watches. Pasta. Simple. Something my mother taught me when I was twelve and couldn’t afford anything else.
“You look good in a kitchen,” she says from her perch on the counter.
“I look good everywhere.”
She laughs. Throws a piece of bread at me.
We eat at the kitchen island, shoulders touching, trading bites of pasta and stories about our days. Her first week at the new job. My latest meeting about a restaurant acquisition.
After dinner, I take her to bed.
Not fast this time. Not desperate. Slow. I undress her piece by piece, worshipping each inch of skin I reveal. I kiss the freckles on her shoulders. The scar on her knee. The soft skin of her inner wrists.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her. “Every part of you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I keep meaning it.”
When I finally sink inside her, we both go still. Her eyes meet mine. And something passes between us that neither of us has words for yet.
After, she falls asleep in my arms.
I lie awake for a long time, listening to her breathe.
She’s here. She’s really here. In my apartment, in my bed, in my life.
I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted her for so long. And now that I have her, I’m terrified of messing it up.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I check it quietly, careful not to wake her.
A text from my mother.
I heard a rumor my son finally got the girl under his roof. Bring her to Sunday dinner. I have questions. And a ring I’ve been saving that you’ve been too stubborn to use.
I smile. Set down the phone.
My mother is going to love this.