Chapter 31 Valentina #3
Oh god. Not the bodega story. I mean, yes, technically, we had met outside José’s, but that night wasn’t exactly a highlight-reel moment.
It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t charming. It was embarrassing—drunk on the steps, fighting back tears, looking every bit the mess I was.
Marco had witnessed a disaster wrapped in too much eyeliner and poor life choices.
And now, apparently, we were sharing that delightful memory at family dinner.
Fantastic.
I resisted the urge to kick him under the table, though it was very tempting.
Marco nodded. “Ran into her many times after that. Hard to forget a face like hers.”
Lucia giggled next to me.
I pressed my lips together, fighting back a smile I definitely wasn’t ready to show. He was being sweet, which was unlike him. Suspiciously unlike him. Maybe he was just trying to charm Isabel, because anyone with half a brain knew Isabel was the gatekeeper in this family.
Or maybe, whispered a stupid, hopeful little voice in the back of my mind, he’s trying to charm me.
Which was absurd, obviously. Marco wasn’t nice just to be nice, and he certainly didn’t say things to impress people—least of all me.
Right?
I took a slow breath, forcing my shoulders to relax as he answered more of Isabel’s questions.
She started with the basics—simple stuff like what part of the city he lived in, where he went to school—but quickly moved on to the tougher, more subtle questions.
The ones designed to catch inconsistencies or draw out truths no one was ready to share.
Marco was handling this. He was good at this.
The conversation moved on, shifting into safer territory.
Thank God.
Lucia told a long-winded story about school.
Daniel talked about work. I nodded at the right parts and laughed softly where I was supposed to, but I was barely listening.
My attention kept drifting back to Marco sitting quietly beside me.
He’d rolled his sleeves up at some point, revealing the edges of a tattoo on his forearm.
Had I seen it before? Maybe I had, but now I couldn’t stop wondering what the whole design looked like, or what the story behind it was.
And there it was again—that insistent curiosity I wasn’t supposed to have. The one that made it impossible to pretend I wasn’t fascinated by every tiny, hidden part of him.
Then, out of nowhere, Isa asked, “Vale, you want a glass of wine?”
My body locked up before my brain had even registered what she’d said. My fingers curled under the edge of the table, nails pressing into my palm as if that could anchor me to reality. Or maybe just distract me from the sudden rush of panic tightening around my throat.
She didn’t know.
To Isabel, this was normal. Just a casual offer.
She had no idea those evenings we’d shared a bottle of wine—sisterly bonding—were so much more complicated for me.
She didn’t know this table in this warm, cozy house with family photos lining the walls was my loophole.
The one place where I could drink unnoticed and unmonitored.
Under the disguise of normalcy, I’d sat here night after night, quietly justifying glass after glass, because here in this kitchen, nobody questioned it. Nobody judged it.
Isabel didn’t know about the bottles hidden in my own apartment, about how I’d found ways to keep my drinking invisible to Max.
Invisible to Marco. She didn’t know the lengths I’d gone to, the silent shame I’d felt when I realized just how dependent I’d become on something that felt both necessary and deeply humiliating.
She didn’t know that for the past year, her kitchen had become my refuge—and my secret shame. And I wasn’t proud.
God, I wasn’t proud.
I wasn’t ready for her to find out either. Not here. Not now. Not like this.
Before I could even fully process it—before I could decide if I wanted to say yes or no—I felt Marco shift next to me.
Not much. Just enough for his arm to brush against mine, for me to notice the subtle tension in his posture.
Like he was already looking at me, aware of exactly why my breath had caught and my hands were shaking under the table.
And when I turned my head, he was.
Not with judgment or disappointment, but with understanding.
Awareness. As if he’d already put together every single piece I’d hidden.
Like he knew exactly why Isabel’s question felt like an interrogation, why the offer of wine wasn’t simple for me at all.
And somehow, there was comfort in that. Comfort and terror, tangled together so tightly I couldn’t tell them apart.
I swallowed, my throat painfully dry. “No, thanks.”
Isabel blinked. She laughed lightly, taking a sip from her own glass. “Since when?”
I forced a shrug, trying to smile as if this were nothing. As if there wasn’t a war happening inside my chest. “I just don’t feel like it tonight.”
Her smirk widened. “What, are you pregnant or something?”
My mouth fell. “Yeah, Isa, that’s it. I’m knocked up. You caught me.”
Lucia perked up beside me, shoveling food into her mouth before mumbling through it, “What’s ‘knocked up’ mean?”
Daniel and Isabel exchanged one of those weary parent looks—the kind that meant “Oh no, not tonight.”
Daniel sighed, already resigned to the conversation. “It means having a baby, Luc.”
Lucia’s eyes went wide, lighting up with pure, innocent delight. She gasped dramatically, nearly knocking over her glass as she turned eagerly toward me. “You’re knocked up?”
I nearly choked on my tortilla. “No.”
“But you just said—”
“She’s joking,” Marco cut in as if he hadn’t smiled just a moment ago—smiled at the thought of something that wasn’t supposed to be real or possible or desired at all.
Lucia slumped back in her chair, utterly betrayed. “Oh.” Then, because she was nothing if not persistent, she turned her hopeful, wide-eyed gaze toward Marco. “Would you want a baby?”
I froze.
Marco tilted his head like he was actually considering the question. “Depends.”
Lucia blinked. “On what?”
I didn’t miss the way his shoulders tightened. Marco, who could navigate every uncomfortable dinner conversation, looked genuinely unsettled at the idea of having a family. As if even the hypothetical thought of a wife—of a kid—was enough to make him cautious.
Before he could answer, Daniel leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So, Marco, Valentina tells me you’re a lawyer. Corporate, right?”
Marco nodded, smoothly slipping into a conversation about corporate structures, mergers, and all the boring legal jargon he somehow made sound vaguely interesting. Meanwhile, I turned my attention back to Lucia, who was now stabbing at her enchilada.
I recognized the look in her eye—thoughtful, frustrated, the same stubborn confusion I’d felt at her age. The kind that made adults sigh and teachers call home.
Sometimes I avoided seeing Lucia—not because I didn’t adore her, but precisely because I did.
Because when I was with her, everything felt clearer.
She reminded me too much of the girl I used to be, back when life had felt simple.
Back when dreams were something you chased, not something you ran from.
Kids like Lucia made it impossible to lie—not just to them, but to yourself.
They asked uncomfortable questions, saw truths you’d rather keep hidden, and made you confront things you’d been sidestepping for years.
Things like motherhood, stability, and the terrifying idea that maybe you deserved something good.
Lucia didn’t just make me think; she forced me to acknowledge all the messy, complicated things I’d spent so much energy pretending weren’t there. Things I’d convinced myself I had no right to want. Things I definitely didn’t think I deserved.
Maybe that was why Lucia mattered so much. Because even at six years old, she was already better at honesty than I’d ever be. And as much as that scared me, maybe, just maybe, it was something I needed more of.
Lucia, who’d been suspiciously quiet, suddenly turned to Marco, her expression serious. “Are you going to come with us to feed the ducks again?”
He looked down at her. “Maybe.”
Lucia nodded as if this was acceptable. “Do you have a favorite kind?”
“Mallards, I think.”
Lucia gasped. “Me too! Next time I’ll bring extra bread so we can both feed them.”
Marco just nodded like it was settled. Like he was planning on there being a next time.
I watched them—Lucia, Isabel, and Daniel—and Marco sitting right in the middle of it all. Like it was easy for him. As if he belonged here, at this table, in this family, in a life I’d never quite figured out how to hold onto without breaking it apart.
He caught me looking, and for a second I thought he might say something. Call me out. Ask what my problem was. Instead he just reached for his water and smiled at me like the whole thing wasn’t unraveling me thread by thread.
Because the truth was, he fit here better than I did, and I had no idea what to do with that.
When we got home, he mentioned something about taking a shower and heading to bed, which I took as my cue to stay put in the kitchen. I mean, the idea of being in the same room with Marco while he undressed . . . Nope. Too risky. Too tempting. Too much.
I tried—and totally failed—not to imagine him down the hall, water running, shirt off, steam filling the room. I shook my head, forcing myself to snap out of it.
Privacy, Valentina. Give the poor man his privacy.
I stayed in the kitchen, standing there for a few minutes like a complete idiot, until I remembered the ice cream. Perfect distraction. Ice cream would help. Ice cream was safe. Ice cream didn’t have bright blue eyes that saw right through me.
I opened the freezer, pulled out the tub, and spooned way too much into a bowl. Did I need four scoops? Probably not. Was I going to eat all of it anyway to distract myself from Marco and the running water just down the hall?
Absolutely.