Chapter 53 Valentina
FIFTY-THREE
VALENTINA
“Can we talk about your brother?” Susan’s leg bounces as she watches me. I watch her back, trying with all my might to pierce her brain and pick apart her thoughts the way she so effortlessly does with my own.
She’s annoying in almost every way. Still, I can’t seem to stay away, drawn to how she dissects every facet of my life with a fine toothed comb, overturning every hurt until its darkness withers beneath the light. It’s both exhausting and exhilarating.
I chew my lip, shrugging. “What about him?”
She gives me the most even, deadpan stare that tells me she’s as nearly sick of my shit as I am hers. It’s a game we play.
“He’s younger, bigger, better.” I cross my arms over my chest. “What more is there to say?”
“Have you talked to him more about your trauma? About your feelings?”
“At Christmas, we talked briefly.”
“And?”
“And…” I shake my head, rolling my eyes. “I don’t know. We talked about his upcoming wedding, and I told him I wanted to be there. Then, we cried over not knowing each other the way we wish we did and didn’t speak about it again for the rest of the evening.”
She’s silent a long time. So long, I begin fidgeting, uncomfortable with her laser vision cutting me open. “You’re seeing him this afternoon, correct?”
I nod, having told her so when I got here as an excuse as to why I couldn’t stay longer than an hour. Maybe it was my subconscious making sure I brought up the topic, because I’ve lost sleep over the meeting for two days now, even though I’d deny it.
I don’t know anymore.
“How are you feeling about that?”
“Fine,” I bite out.
“And how are you really feeling about it?”
I blow out a breath, tipping my head to the ceiling. I could get up and leave. I want to. “I’m nervous I’ll say the wrong thing, per usual. I’m afraid there’s all this build up for us to fix things, and what if it never happens? What if what we have is simply what we have?”
“Okay, let’s go with that train of thought. What if?”
I glare at her. She’s supposed to have the answers, yet all she ever gives me are stupid, repetitive questions. “Then I’d be fucking hurt and angry and no better off than I am.”
Her face remains neutral, but I swear, her lip twitches like she’s fighting off a smile. “What do we need to do to prevent that from happening?”
I think about the question. I wish I knew. That’s why I’m here. “Can you give me the answer, just once?”
She finally smiles, a small one. “There is no answer, Valentina. Remember, it’s not your job to get it right. Your job is to simply show up, try, and work on something harmful or hurting or getting in the way of your happiness.”
I purse my lips, wanting to scream. Instead, I press my aching knuckles to the inside of my biceps. “Okay. I suppose I’ll just have to keep opening up to him, because the alternative does nothing but keep us where we are.”
She nods encouragingly. “What do you want to say to him?”
“He wants to know more about my past, about the trauma. I don’t want to disappoint him or make him think I’m hiding things, but—”
“But?”
“I don’t want to tell him more. It’s mine, and it’s going to hurt me more by talking about it than not. But isn’t that going to keep us where we are?”
“No.” Her assurance calms something inside me, and I relax my fists, dropping my hands into my lap.
“It’s your story to tell or not tell, Valentina.
You owe nobody anything, just as no one owes you anything.
We can control only ourselves. In my opinion, simply telling him how you feel about the trauma, about telling him, and about how you want things to be moving forward, may just be enough.
The best part about healing is it isn’t linear.
You may decide later you want to talk to him about things, but that’s yours to decide.
Opening up doesn’t mean spilling everything to him.
It means telling him how you feel now so you can make it better for the future. ”
The fear inside me settles. Another trauma turned over, another small step toward healing.
I’m running late, and I hate it. As usual, once I got talking to Susan, I couldn’t stop.
I don’t want to. It’s addictive, having someone listen to every good or bad thought or feeling I have and holding space for it.
There’s no judgement, no right or wrong, and for the first time in my life, I feel my need to flee settle.
I pull up to the building, pausing to stare at the structure.
It’s worse than I expected, with paint faded and peeling off the walls, glass windows crusty and cracked.
It looks dropped straight out of an old western movie—a square body with a front that’s tall and swooped toward an enormous, wrought-iron star at its peak.
Mateo steps into view, dressed in a warm jacket pulled up to his ears, his face rosy, and I swallow. How long has he been standing in the cold, wondering if I’m blowing him off?
Not willing to waste another minute, I climb out of the car and walk toward him. He gives me a guarded smile, his eyes tracing my face.
I go for honesty, as I always do, but I inwardly sigh in relief that this time, it might not hurt him. “Sorry I’m late. Therapy ran long.”
His eyes widen in surprise, and then he nods. “No problem. I’m, uh—”
I save him from the awkward hole he’s slipped into, motioning toward the front door. “Me too. Can we go inside? It’s fucking cold out here.”
We walk inside, and to my horror, it’s nearly colder inside than out.
“As you can tell, there’s very little insulation. And the heating is non-existent."
“What the hell did they use this for before?” I stare around at the dust-covered space—a giant open room with wooden pillars holding up the roof and floors that could use multiple rounds of cleaning and polishing.
“I think it was a gathering hall, like dances and parties and stuff.”
“Makes sense. It’s going to take a lot of money and time to get it usable.
” I glance at him and notice the look of wonder on his masculine face—so like our father’s, but softer, kinder—as he takes in the room.
It’s the first time I’ve noticed how different he looks from the man who haunts my dreams, and the icy wall around my heart trembles. “Why’d you buy it in the first place?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I always liked it when we were younger and would drive by. It’s sat empty our whole lives.”
I whistle. “I wonder why.”
He chuckles. “Do you think this will work for Faith?”
I look around once more and then nod. Even though the work load will undoubtably be enormous, I love the idea of her center being at the heart of town, where anyone who needs her can find it. I love the idea of the space being repurposed into something so special—it’s worth whatever it costs.
“Yes. I think it’s perfect.” We stand in silence for several moments, until I look up at him, finding him staring down at me. “What?”
He smiles. “You seem different. Every time I see you, you seem—”
“I am, Mateo.” I shrug.
“Can we talk about—”
I shake my head. “I’m not ready. It’s not that I don’t trust you, or that I want to influence how you think or feel; it’s just too raw still.
Maybe someday, but for now, I want you to see who I’m becoming and not worry about who I was.
” The lump in my throat is heavy, and I have to swallow several times to keep the sticky taste of insecurity from pulling me under.
He face softens, a sadness filling his eyes before he finally nods, just once. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”
I don’t deny it. Even though it feels wrong to stand my ground, it feels good too. I’m not doing it to hurt him—I’m doing it to protect me. It’s the first time I’ve done so, and it feels too good to feel bad about it.
“About the wedding.” His throat bobs, and I wait, my nerves instantly kicking into overdrive at his nervous behavior. “Mom will be there.”
I sag, letting out a breath. “Shit, Mateo. You scared me. Yeah, I figured she would be.”
“Is that okay?”
I stare at him. Is he really asking me if it’s okay that his own mother is at his wedding? “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“She doesn’t know?”
I rock back on my heels. “Awe. No, she doesn’t, but I want to fix things with her too. In my own time. Seeing her will be good. I miss my mom.”
It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud.
“She’s going to be so excited to see you.”
I nod, still unsure how to feel about our mother. Mateo always idolized her—both our parents, honestly—and it’s because I took up all the space for the neglected, abused, mistreated child, leaving only the good parts for him. I don’t resent him for that.
I just see our family differently than he does. It’s not fair, but it’s real.
“When can we get started on the building?”
He must sense my need to change the subject. Clapping his hands, he smiles widely. “How about tomorrow?”