Chapter 15 #2
And just as abruptly as it happened, he pulled away, stepping aside to let me pass.
I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t, because if I did, he’d know exactly how much that stupid, meaningless touch had gotten under my skin.
I stepped off the subway, Lucia’s hand still gripping mine. Twenty minutes usually felt short, but tonight, with Marco still lingering at the edges of my mind, it felt like forever.
Lucia hummed some song she’d probably learned at school, occasionally breaking off to ask me questions no normal adult would know how to answer. Like whether pigeons had names, or if snowflakes had families. She was chatty—too chatty—and if I were less tired, it might’ve been cute.
Lucia pointed at a neon sign flickering pathetically over a bodega. “Is that sign broken?”
“It’s just old,” I muttered, distracted.
She nodded, serious. “Like you?”
I shot her a look. “Watch it, kid. I’m twenty-two.”
She swung our linked hands dramatically, apparently already bored with this conversation. “I’m tired. Carry me?”
“You weren’t tired when you begged me for ice cream.”
She yawned, laying it on thick. “Ice-cream energy goes away fast.”
I sighed and lifted her into my arms, because I was a sucker, and because fighting a six-year-old never ended well.
She rested her head on my shoulder, her mittened fingers gripping my coat.
Her cheek pressed softly against my neck, and suddenly, I felt bad for complaining, even if it was only in my head.
My thoughts drifted back to Marco, because apparently, my brain couldn’t find anything better to fixate on tonight.
I wondered if he had kids. Probably not.
He didn’t look like someone who knew how to deal with tiny humans.
Didn’t look like someone who wanted to deal with any humans, really.
But then again, I knew nothing about him besides the fact he worked for Max, wore expensive suits, and had annoyingly perfect posture.
When we finally reached the street, Lucia perked up again, twisting out of my arms and landing in the snow with a small thud.
“You’re awake again?” I asked dryly.
She grinned and immediately grabbed a fistful of snow. “Of course. Snowball fight?”
“Absolutely not. You’ll get sick, and your mother will kill me.”
Lucia ignored me, launching the snowball anyway. It hit my leg, exploding in an impressive burst of powder and soaking through my jeans. I stared down, trying and failing to look annoyed.
She giggled uncontrollably. “Oops.”
I snorted. “That was pathetic.”
Lucia huffed. “It’s ’cause my gloves are too big!”
“Excuses.”
Before she could argue, I crouched down and scooped up my own handful of snow. Rolled it between my palms until it was perfectly compact.
Lucia’s eyes went wide. “No fair,” she protested. “You’re bigger than me!”
I smirked. “Then run.”
Her eyes flashed with excitement, and a loud screech followed as she darted toward the front steps, running as fast as she possibly could. When the snowball I tossed hit her back, she ran into the door with a giggle.
Isabel opened the door, brows raised. “What’s going on out here?”
Lucia grinned up at her. “Tía’s cheating!”
“She’s also late,” Isabel noted, giving me a pointed look.
I rolled my eyes, brushing the snow off my coat as I followed them inside. The house smelled like something warm. Like cinnamon and broth. Like home.
“Lucia, go take a shower and warm up,” Isa directed.
Lucia kicked off her boots and ran down the hall, leaving behind a trail of snow that melted in the warmth.
I stayed outside with my arms crossed.
“How did it go?” Isa asked.
“It was good. Ducks are well-fed, and we had some hot chocolate.”
“Thank you for taking her. She talks about you all the time. I’m glad you made time for her.”
“I’ve always got time for that girl,” I said, shaking the thoughts away.
Isabel smiled and opened the door further.
She was inviting me in.
She didn’t always do that.
We argued a lot, and most nights, she probably didn’t feel like it.
I hesitated for half a second, then I stepped inside.
She’d poured us both a glass of red.
Now, I wasn’t the kind to deny a drink. That had never been my problem. My problem was the second drink. The third. The way one sip could convince me another wouldn’t hurt, and then suddenly, I was three glasses deep, laughing too loud, talking too much, feeling too damn good to stop.
I glanced at the glass, fingers itching.
It’s just a drink, I tried to tell myself.
But it was never just a drink with me.
Funny, how something that looked this innocent could ruin everything—how easily it could turn me into someone I didn’t recognize.
It wasn’t just the taste, the burn, the warmth it brought after the first few sips. It was the escape. It was feeling like someone else for a while. Someone lighter. Someone without bitter regrets.
Alcohol had always been my favorite lie. My favorite secret. It whispered things like, “Just one more won’t hurt,” like, “You’re fine,” like, “This is who you really are, Valentina.” And damn, sometimes I believed it.
But lately, when I looked into a glass like this, I couldn’t help but see Marco. The way his eyes narrowed when he saw me with a glass. He looked at me like I was better than the choices I made. Like he was waiting for me to realize it too.
I hated that look. I hated it because it made me want to be the kind of person who never gave him a reason to use it.
It was probably why I avoided him—or at least tried to. Not because I didn’t like him, but because he made me realize how much I didn’t like myself. He was a mirror, reflecting all the ways I kept messing up, and I hated it.
And yet lately, the idea of disappointing him felt worse than the hangovers. Worse than the shakes and the guilt and the judgmental stares from everyone else. I wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted him to look at me and see more than just another screwup; another drunk girl making bad decisions.
Isabel sat down, picking up her own glass without hesitation and swirling it in the way people did when they actually gave a shit about wine.
I’d never been that person. Wine was wine. It either got you drunk, or it didn’t.
I stared at it for a second too long. Then, finally, I picked it up.
Maybe one day I’d stop disappointing him.
Maybe one day I’d stop disappointing myself too.