Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
CAMILA
Camila’s first stop before work is Valeria’s favorite coffee shop. It’s a little out of the way, fifteen extra minutes stitched on to her commute, but she doesn’t mind a single bit. She’s been eager to check this place out ever since Valeria mentioned it was her favorite on the list.
The moment she steps inside, Camila is wrapped in the rich scent of freshly ground coffee beans, and she finds herself smiling. There’s something about walking into a coffee shop first thing in the morning that always puts her in a good mood; she can’t quite explain why.
She joins the line, half-distracted, reading through Valeria’s notes on the place, when she notices a head of unruly, dark curls ahead of her. Something about it tugs at her attention. Camila leans slightly to the side, careful not to be obvious, just enough to see.
“Can I help—” Annoyed icy brown eyes meet Camila’s, sharp and assessing, before recognition flickers across Ella’s face and melts the edge right off.
“Cam?” Ella says, her brows knitting together as a small, surprised smile curves her lips.
“Hey,” Camila says. “I thought that might be you.” She isn’t usually a hugger, but something about a familiar face has Camila pulling Ella into a quick hug. “Wow, it’s so good to see you.”
“You too,” Ella says, still smiling. “How’s the move been?”
“Surprisingly, a lot smoother than I expected.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Yeah.”
Silence settles. Camila shifts her weight, glances toward the counter, then back at Ella.
Before the quiet has a chance to stretch into something more awkward, the barista calls for Ella’s order.
Ella turns back toward the counter, and Camila exhales, a light tension easing from her shoulders.
Small talk has never been her thing. She always ends up feeling off, not quite sure how to continue a conversation past the basics.
It makes sense, really, that she chose a job that keeps her alone most of the day.
Once Ella finishes placing her order, she turns back toward Camila.
“Hey, my girlfriend and I are going to a game night tonight if you want to join,” she says. “Nothing fancy, just a chill hangout to end the week.”
Camila’s first instinct is to pass. The thanks, but I can’t tonight ready on her tongue. It should be so easy, but she’s been cooped up at home for weeks, only ever leaving to go to work and, surprisingly—even to herself—the idea of a few hours away from home sounds like exactly what she needs.
“Yeah, that sounds great. Do you mind if I invite a friend?” Camila asks, the idea clicking into place as she realizes it’s the perfect excuse to hang out with Valeria.
They’ve been texting back and forth for a few days, and maybe it’s hasty, but Camila feels comfortable with her.
It might be nice to have a familiar face around Ella’s friends.
“Yeah, that’s perfectly fine, I’ll text you the address later.”
“Sounds good.”
The barista slides Ella’s drink across the counter, and Camila gives her a small wave as she heads off.
When it’s Camila’s turn to order, she pulls up Valeria’s note and orders her favorite.
An iced cherry matcha with almond milk and three shots of espresso.
If nothing else, Camila ordering that proves she’ll do anything a pretty face tells her to.
You shouldn’t be thinking that, Camila scolds herself—her better angel wagging an invisible finger. Valeria has a girlfriend.
The thought barely settles before another one poofs into her mind, and a little demon shrugs.
She’s not doing anything wrong by recognizing a pretty face for what it is.
Valeria is taken, yes—but finding someone attractive doesn’t automatically mean anything.
She finds people attractive all the time.
Exhibit A: the barista making her drink.
Her finding the barista attractive doesn’t mean she wants her. It’s just . . . an observation. Totally harmless, she decides as she continues to watch the woman prepare her drink.
When she sets the cup in front of her, Camila hesitates, watching the faint condensation beading along the sides.
Her fingers close around the cup, the chill seeping into her skin.
She gives it a cautious sniff, bracing herself as she takes a small sip, her expression faintly pinched.
But just as she swallows, Camila swears she’s in heaven.
She pauses. Blinks at it in confusion and takes another sip.
It’s . . . delicious. It’s sweet, rich, and smooth, with the right caffeine kick.
This place is going to take all my money, she thinks, already resigned to it.
Suddenly, the extra fifteen minutes added to her commute feels well worth it.
Once she’s back in her car, she pulls out her phone, snaps a picture of her cup condensation beading along the plastic, and sends it to Valeria.
Camila 7:45 a.m.:
This is magical. I had 0 faith, but thank you for the rec!
Valeria 7:45 a.m.:
Yes! So glad you loved it. You won’t find a better place! Sad I missed you, I was there a few minutes ago!
Camila 7:45 a.m.:
Next time!
Btw, are you free tonight? My friend just invited me to a game night. Would you want to come?
Valeria 7:45 a.m.:
I wish I could, but I already have plans! I was actually going to ask you if you wanted to join me! Rain check?
Camila thinks about canceling on Ella. Hanging out with Valeria sounds so much better, plain and simple. She feels a little bad about it, though. She already bailed once, and she doesn’t want to make a habit of it as she did in Chicago.
Camila 7:50 a.m.:
Rain check.
Camila exhales through her nose and locks her phone, feeling slightly disappointed, and annoyingly, a little proud of herself, too.
Thirty minutes later, she arrives at the studio earlier than usual—early enough that none of her coworkers have made it in yet—so she gets straight to work, turning on the overhead lights at her workstation and pulling the protective film off her current restoration project.
The place smells of turpentine and old varnish—a scent that has become intensely comforting over the years. She puts her favorite vinyl on the record player, and music fills the room. Camila hums along as she sets up her phone and tripod.
What started as a whim—filming her restoration process for social media—has grown into something far bigger than she ever imagined.
Her account’s taken off, millions of eyes watching every brushstroke, every patch of color revealed beneath centuries of grime.
She didn’t expect to love it this much—sharing the process and teaching people how old paintings can come back to life.
She tests a small patch near the corner of the painting she’s restoring: a family heirloom from the 1800s.
Carefully, she dabs a cotton swab soaked in solvent, moving in slow, circular motions.
The yellowed varnish lifts away, teasing out a hint of blue—brighter, more accurate, alive again.
This is the part Camila loves most: coaxing the past back into the present, one careful motion at a time.
Caring for something that has been taken over by time and restoring its beauty.
For hours, she works methodically, section by section, scraping gently with her X-Acto knife where the solvent can’t reach, coaxing the buildup off gently.
Now and then, she glances at the camera she set up at home to check on Miso.
All day, she’s been sunbathing by the bay windows, moving only slightly.
The camera was the only way she’d let Miso wander around when she wasn’t home, and Camila can tell Miso appreciates the freedom.
She’s not as destructive as she used to be when she was cooped up in the closet for hours.
By 3 o’clock, Camila’s back is tight from leaning over the painting for hours, and she’s more than ready to go home and rest before meeting Ella. On days like today, she’s extra grateful she can set her own hours at the studio.
She needs to find a massage place as soon as possible. In Chicago, she went at least twice a month. Leaning over almost every day for hours at a time has taken a toll on her back, and she knows she’ll have a mountain of issues when she’s older.
The second she crosses the front door of her house, Miso meows a welcome.
“Hi, sweet girl.” Camila picks her up and rubs her head against hers. Miso purrs instantly, and Camila carries her further into the house, flopping onto the couch. Miso settles on her chest, adjusting herself comfortably as Camila wraps an arm around her.
Without warning, her eyes give out, and she drifts to sleep. A couple of hours later, she wakes up disoriented, the edges of reality fuzzy, unsure of what time it is or when she fell asleep. Slowly, she becomes aware of an insistent buzzing sound coming from somewhere on the couch.
She fumbles for it until the screen lights up. Her mom is calling.
Camila lets it buzz. Once. Twice. She heavily considers letting it go to voicemail, the way she always did before, but she can’t. Not when the call could be an emergency.
She rubs her face and drags herself upright before answering.
“Hi, Mom,” she says, her voice sounding thinner than she means it to, still tangled in sleep.
“Camila,” her mother says, relief sharpening into reproach. “I’ve been calling you.”
She shifts on the couch, pulling her knees in. “I was asleep.”
“Asleep? Camila, it’s the middle of the day. Are you taking care of yourself?”
Camila closes her eyes. She has no idea what time it is, but the darkness pressed against her window tells her it isn’t the middle of the day. Leave it to Mom to exaggerate.
“Everything okay?” Camila asks, pushing the focus away from herself.
“What? Yes, why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know, Mom. You don’t usually call at this time. I thought it was an emergency.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, a cool and offended, “Well, can’t a mother just call?”