Prologue #2
Brooke reaches to cradle Valeria’s face again, but Valeria turns away, refusing the touch. The words hit like a slap she can’t pretend not to feel.
Brooke has criticized the girls before—expressed her intense disapproval of Valeria’s friendship with them so many times Valeria has lost count—but never like this.
Brooke has never said that she’d be better off without them.
That crosses a line she hadn’t realized Brooke was capable of approaching.
The girls are her family. Anger flares in her chest. Not only at Brooke’s tone, but at the implication that the girls are anything less than the fiercely loyal—sure, sometimes a little out there—but overall extraordinary women Valeria knows them to be.
Are Clara and Alejandra being a little silly around this entire thing with Isabella and Lily?
Sure, but so what? Everyone is allowed a little nonsense among friends.
Valeria knows Brooke is projecting, unraveling old wounds she refuses to examine, but the understanding doesn’t mute the anger or the hurt.
“You go,” Valeria says, the words slipping out before she can stop them.
The moment they’re spoken, she feels the ground shift beneath her.
She wants to snatch them back, swallow them, rewind time, but they’re out.
They exist, and a chill runs up her spine at the realization that she has just made everything so much worse.
“Go? You think you’re staying?” Brooke huffs.
Valeria remains silent, terrified of stoking the fire she didn’t intend to set.
“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. My sweet girl would never say this.”
Valeria’s gaze falls to the floor. Brooke steps closer, leaning in to press a light kiss against Valeria’s lips. She wants to turn away, wipe the kiss off, but things will only escalate if she does. So she lets it be.
“They’re no good for you,” Brooke murmurs. “You know I’m only saying this because I love you, right?”
Heat pricks behind Valeria’s eyes, not from sadness but from a sharp, throbbing anger. It’s the one thing she hates about herself, that she can’t be angry without tears showing up, too.
“Oh, don’t cry,” Brooke coos. “You’ll make better friends. I’ll make sure of it.” She kisses Valeria again, soft and final, before turning to the bed and grabbing Valeria’s things, shoving them into her bag.
Valeria watches, frozen, fighting the urge to tell her to stop, because she knows the moment she says it, everything will go downhill. She watches Brooke for one beat too long before the words slip out anyway.
“Brooke, stop,” she says in barely a whisper.
Brooke freezes for a second. But in an instant, she’s reaching for more, stuffing the rest of Valeria’s clothes into the bag.
“Stop,” Valeria says again, louder this time.
Brooke exhales sharply, her shoulders dropping. “You’re not staying.”
“You can trust me around them. You know this,” Valeria says, her voice pleading.
“Valeria, put your shit away.” The words aren’t shouted, but the warning inside them is unmistakable. Usually, this would be the point where Valeria caves, but tonight, something in her is simply out.
Their arguments always follow the same pattern: Valeria stays quiet, suppressing everything, trying to fix whatever can be fixed—even the things that can’t.
Brooke refuses to budge until Valeria eventually gives up, and they either let it die or explode into a screaming match.
There is never a middle ground. Brooke doesn’t know the concept of moderation.
Some days, Valeria has the emotional reserves to keep the peace, but tonight, she has nothing left.
The whole weekend has been a never-ending argument that started the moment Brooke invited herself to the cabin, fueled by her overall bad attitude throughout their stay.
Every second since they got here has drained Valeria, leaving her hollow and exhausted.
Valeria’s throat is tight when she speaks, but the words come anyway. “No. I’m not leaving.”
She walks to the bed, crawls beneath the covers, and curls onto her side, silently praying Brooke will finish packing quickly and leave. Not a second passes before Brooke yanks the blanket away. Her fingers clamp around Valeria’s wrists, and she drags her off the bed.
“What the fuck!” Valeria shouts, twisting against Brooke’s grip.
Panic surges in Valeria’s chest as she remembers the many times Brooke has lost control. Memories of Brooke’s hands shoving Valeria hard against a wall, and objects flying past her head flash across her mind, but she tries not to focus on that right now.
Brooke has never hit her, not outright, but the fear of that possibility lurks constantly in the back of Valeria’s mind. It’s why she swallows so much of her autonomy, why she lets things slide, and why she tries so hard to keep the peace.
The girls think she doesn’t see it, but she does. She sees all of it. She just tries to avoid conflict, because as much as Brooke’s volatility scares her, there are good parts, too. Beautiful parts.
The girls don’t see how Brooke goes out of her way to make each day special, or how she brings Valeria flowers every Thursday, just because.
They don’t see how attentive she can be, how generous she is—Valeria barely has time to look twice at something before Brooke slips it into her cart, deciding Valeria needs it because she stared at it for more than five seconds.
They don’t see how thoughtful she is, in ways that sometimes make Valeria feel cherished beyond measure, like when she’s had a long day at work and Brooke sets wine out for her and either cooks or orders in so Valeria doesn’t need to worry about it.
That’s the sort of thoughtfulness Valeria should have shown tonight. She should have had more patience. She should not have pushed Brooke into this angry corner or let exhaustion win.
God, Valeria thinks, voice cracking inside her own mind. I should have known better.
The sting of Brooke’s nails tearing into Valeria’s skin pulls her from her thoughts.
“Baby, you’re hurting me,” she whispers, her voice breaking, but Brooke doesn’t loosen her grip. Her nails dig deeper into Valeria’s skin as she holds on, and tears gather at the corners of Valeria’s eyes.
Brooke’s deep blue gaze is fixed on her with such raw anger that it chills Valeria to her core. The softness Brooke usually shows her, the gentleness Valeria has clung to for years, is nowhere in sight. The eyes staring back at her are unfamiliar.
Valeria stops struggling, but Brooke’s nails sink deeper until she shoves Valeria’s arms down with an angry scoff.
A shaky breath rips through Valeria’s chest. She looks down at her wrists and sees the outline of Brooke’s nails etched into her skin, small beads of blood forming.
“I’m bleeding,” she whispers. It’s barely audible, meant more for herself than anyone else, but Brooke hears it and a flicker of worry flashes across her face. She’s never drawn blood from Valeria before.
Brooke reaches for her wrist, and Valeria instinctively flinches. Brooke tries again, and this time Valeria doesn’t resist. Brooke inspects the marks, frowning as she lifts Valeria’s wrists close to her lips.
“Barely,” she says, gently kissing each wrist. “I’m sorry,” she says before turning away.
She starts talking—something about packing, about timing—but her words slide into meaningless sound.
As if Brooke suddenly started speaking a language Valeria doesn’t recognize.
Her ears ring, and her mind detaches until it feels suspended outside her own body while Brooke’s voice fades into an unrecognizable hum and the room starts to feel slightly off, like she’s inside a picture frame that’s hung askew.
Valeria doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting there staring blankly at the dark stretch of forest outside the window when the mattress dips beside her.
Brooke sits, composed as ever, and slips an arm around Valeria in a tight side hug.
Valeria’s body recoils, rejecting the familiarity that suddenly feels wrong.
“Ready to go?” Brooke asks, so casually that it feels like a gut punch.
All the air in Valeria’s lungs leaves her in a sharp exhale, and she can’t form words. She shakes her head and pulls further away from Brooke.
“Why not?” Brooke presses, as if the answer isn’t obvious. As if nothing had happened. The question sinks into her stomach like a stone. Brooke hasn’t thought about how this might have affected her—she probably already dismissed it, writing it off as Valeria being dramatic, the way she always does.
Valeria lifts her wrist, and Brooke rolls her eyes.
“That? Babe, that’s nothing. I held you too hard. I promise I won’t do it again.” She smiles, and the sight of it sends acid rising in Valeria’s throat.
“Go,” Valeria says quietly, her gaze fixed on the shaggy green carpet at the foot of the bed.
“Excuse me?”
“I said go.” Valeria’s tone is soft. She doesn’t have the strength to shout.
Brooke stares at her, baffled, and lets out a soft breath of laughter, as if Valeria said something absurd.
“You’re upset about that?” Brooke lifts Valeria’s wrist and drops it back on her lap. “A scratch?” Her smile is thin and mocking.
Hurt flashes across Valeria’s chest at Brooke’s mocking tone, and her hands curl into fists in her lap. “You hurt me, Brooke. Do you realize that?”
“You’re overreacting.” Brooke pushes to her feet and starts pacing. “You always do this, take the smallest thing and twist it around to make me look like the bad guy. I didn’t hit you. I scratched you. By accident, might I add.”
Brooke’s emphasis on “scratched” makes Valeria sick. Like she should be grateful it wasn’t worse. Heat flares low in her gut, anger edging past the nausea until she explodes.
“I don’t care that you think I’m overreacting! Look at my wrists! Look at what you did! It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t a lot. You still did this.” Valeria’s voice cracks into a sob.