CHAPTER 7
Victoria and Micaela are on their way to Vinuesa, a quaint town of fewer than nine hundred souls nestled north of Madrid in the province of Soria. It”s here, in a secluded house arranged by their publisher, that they are to spend the coming weeks, forced together to write a novel.
Their journey begins steeped in an uncomfortable silence. They exchange chilly greetings when they meet, with Micaela sliding behind the wheel and Victoria cursing the nearly three-hour drive ahead.
”Turn on the radio and stop your complaining. I like this as little as you do,” Micaela snaps, her eyes darting sideways at Victoria.
”Maybe you don”t like it, but never forget, we”re here because of you,” Victoria retorts, savoring each word as it slices the air.
”I didn”t ask for this,” Micaela shoots back, her jaw clenched tight.
”Sure, but it seems they don”t trust you to handle it alone and have assigned me as your babysitter. Now, shut up and let me see what you”ve written so I know what I”m dealing with.”
”What I”ve written isn”t relevant. That”s for my book, and we”re supposed to start a new plot,” Micaela protests, her pride bruised.
”It is to me. I need to know what I”m up against.”
While they are stopped at a traffic light, Micaela reluctantly sends Victoria the same draft she had initially sent to Javier, the one she had rewritten twice and eventually deleted. Victoria slouches in her seat, her posture screaming indifference, and starts reading.
Inside, Micaela seethes, unable to defend herself from Victoria”s sharp jabs—ones she knows she”s earned from their previous haughty and provocative encounters. Yet, she appreciates the silence that falls as Victoria reads, even if it leaves a knot of anxiety in her stomach. She steals glances at Victoria, trying to gauge her reaction, wondering if her writing is as dreadful as she fears or if it might be salvageable in the eyes of the accomplished author beside her.
Finally, they leave Madrid, and Micaela manages to relax slightly, but not for long. Victoria finishes reading, and her feedback is less than kind.
”This is garbage. If you plan to use this story, you”ll need to rewrite the whole thing. What the hell happened?” Victoria blurts out, genuinely shocked.
Victoria isn”t a fan of Micaela”s books, but she has always appreciated her narrative style. What she just read, however, lacks the freshness that typically characterizes Micaela”s work. The two chapters are so dull that, had it been night, they might have lulled her to sleep.
”Why do you think we”re stuck here?” Micaela”s voice trembles as much with frustration as with anger. ”I”m blocked, okay? Everything I write turns out like that crap, and it doesn”t help that you”re rubbing it in my face.”
”Do you want applause?” Victoria”s tone is sharp, cutting through the tense air. ”If it”s bad, it”s bad, and it needs to be said. Do you know how many writers out there ruin their careers because they”re surrounded by people too afraid to tell them the truth? You can”t improve if you don”t know what you”re doing wrong.”
”But that”s not my problem... I just can”t seem to write anything.”
”It is your problem,” Victoria insists, pointing a finger at her. ”Why do you think you”re stuck? Because you”ve got an ego the size of a cathedral. You think you”re a writing goddess, but you”re just starting out. You had one hit, sure, but now you”re paralyzed with fear that your next book won”t measure up.”
Micaela opens her mouth to spew a slew of retorts that flit through her mind, but the words die on her lips when she realizes that maybe, just maybe, this infuriating woman beside her might be right. She feels herself deflate, a scream building inside her—not because Victoria is right, but because admitting it would wound her pride.
”You”re enjoying this, aren”t you?” Micaela asks instead of conceding the point.
”A bit, yes. You”ve just fallen off the pedestal you put yourself on,” Victoria smirks, her smile tinged with malice.
”You”re...” Micaela searches for the right words, her gaze flickering. That moment of distraction is enough for her not to see a massive pothole. The car jolts violently, startling them both.
”On top of being a terrible writer, you”re an idiot,” Victoria exclaims, clutching her chest.
”It”s your fault! Stop picking on me, damn it!” Micaela snaps, her tongue clicking in irritation.
Victoria is about to lash out again but stops herself, seeing Micaela”s tense expression and flushed face. She realizes she might be going too far. Victoria herself has never experienced a writing block, but she knows it could happen to anyone. If it were her, she wouldn”t want someone constantly rubbing it in. So, she bites her tongue, though the silence that follows is short-lived, as the car suddenly shudders and the steering wheel starts to vibrate.
”Damn,” Micaela mutters, annoyed. ”I think we”ve blown the right rear tire.”
”No surprise there, with the crater you just hit. It”s a wonder we didn”t blow the front one too,” Victoria can”t help herself and throws in one last jab.
Micaela huffs, a gust of irritation that tousles the fringe of her bangs. She flicks on the blinker, guiding the car off the highway to a stop on the dusty shoulder. Both women exit simultaneously. As Victoria retrieves the emergency triangle from the trunk, Micaela stares at the deflated tire, her face a canvas of annoyance.
“Expecting it to change itself?” Victoria quips, striding back to Micaela’s side.
“That would be fantastic since I have no clue how to change it,” Micaela retorts, her tone icy, freezing Victoria in her tracks.
“How can you not know? It’s just a tire, and we’re stranded because of your driving. So, find the jack and roll up your sleeves, darling.”
“Thanks for noticing I’m your type, but I’d rather call for a tow truck.”
Victoria spots a truck rumbling past and fights the urge to push Micaela into its path, just to deflate that ego.
“No signal,” Micaela announces, lifting her phone towards the heavens—no bars in sight. “You got anything?”
Victoria pulls out her own phone, her heart sinking as it too shows no service. “No, and no surprise. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“Well, I’m not hiking to the nearest gas station. You know what happens in movies; the pretty girls always get it worst.”
“Because they’re foolish,” Victoria snaps.
Micaela shoots her a lethal glare but holds her tongue as Victoria pops the trunk open.
“What are you doing?” Micaela asks, curiosity piquing as she crosses her arms over her chest.
“Getting the jack. If we’ve got no signal and you’re not about to lift a finger, someone has to change the tire.”
Micaela blinks, a smirk playing on her lips. “You’re changing it?”
“Look, Micaela, if you’re not helping, at least stop asking dumb questions.”
With a grunt, Victoria heaves the spare tire onto the asphalt, leaning it against the car. She then wrestles the jack into position and cranks it, lifting the punctured tire off the ground.
Taking Victoria’s words literally, Micaela steps aside, settling down to browse photos on her phone. Victoria strains with each lug nut, her glances at the idle writer sharpening with every turn.
“Can you move and bring the tire here?” she finally barks, frustration boiling over.
“Make up your mind, Victoria,” Micaela retorts with a cheeky grin. “First, you want me out of the way, now you need my help? If you’re this indecisive with everything, we’ll never finish our book on time.”
Victoria drops the wrench with a clang, startling Micaela. “I dropped it to resist the temptation of hitting you over the head with it. You’re welcome. Now, bring the tire.”
For the first time, laughter escapes Micaela, a genuine chuckle that softens the harsh lines of the afternoon.
Twenty minutes later, the tire is replaced. Victoria stands, hands smeared with grease, her shirt clinging to her sweaty back—disgusted with herself yet victorious.
“This mess is on you,” she declares as Micaela splashes water from a bottle over Victoria’s grimy hands. “When we get back, I’m showering first.”
”Fine by me, since you reek,” Micaela quips, a playful sparkle in her eyes offsetting the sting of her words.
Victoria”s gaze snaps up, her eyes blazing, but she catches the teasing lift of Micaela”s lips. ”Fine,” she concedes, her Italian surname a silent whisper between them. ”How about I make it up to you by cooking dinner?”
”That”s the least you could do, and hopefully, you”re better at cooking than writing,” Victoria shoots back, unable to hold back her barb.