Chapter 11 #4
She pulls up to their house, not five minutes later, and she realizes she doesn’t know if they’re home, but it’s too late now.
She walks up the stairs and knocks on the door.
She waits for a few seconds, but there’s nothing.
She knocks again, but only silence follows.
Just as she’s about to turn around, someone opens the door.
“Valeria?” a warm voice says.
“Lala,” she whispers, the name barely making it past the tightness in her throat. She steps into her arms before she can say anything.
“Oh,” Lala—Alejandra’s grandmother—breathes, startled, her arms hesitating for half a second before they wrap around Valeria. Holding her tightly, grounding her in a way Valeria didn’t think anyone but her mom could.
“It’s nice to see you too, mamita,” she whispers into Valeria’s hair, her voice warm, and it only makes the ache in her chest sharpen.
“Val?” Alejandra says as she turns the corner in her favorite sweats and oversized fluffy sweater. Concern creeps into her voice as she looks at Valeria, basically glued to Lala.
“Are you okay?” Clara adds, head tilting slightly as she studies Valeria.
“I . . . I don’t know,” she says, wiping her face.
Alejandra’s expression shifts immediately—less worried, more alert—and Clara walks straight into the kitchen.
“Oh,” Alejandra says quietly, stepping closer. “Yeah. Okay. Come sit.”
Lala gently loosens her hold on Valeria but keeps a hand on her back, guiding her toward the couch.
“Here,” Clara says the moment Valeria sits. “Drink that,” she adds as she hands Valeria a shot glass with a clear liquid sloshing inside.
She doesn’t hesitate and throws it back. The tequila hits the back of her tongue sharp and clean, and burns all the way down her throat, settling in her chest like a tiny fire. Valeria coughs once, eyes watering more than before.
“Jesus,” she mutters, pressing the heel of her hand to her sternum.
“Yeah, it’s the good stuff,” Clara says, already pouring another one. “Figured you needed something with a kick.” She smiles.
Alejandra looks at her, smiles, and shakes her head, then turns back to Valeria and lays a hand on her lap.
“You don’t have to talk, but we’re here for you.”
Valeria stares at Alejandra’s hand as it bounces against her thigh, her leg jittering up and down while Valeria chews on the nail of her thumb.
Lala sits beside her, her hand moving in slow, steady circles across Valeria’s back.
“What is this?” Lala asks softly, gently caressing Valeria’s chin.
“What?” Valeria asks, her stomach twisting.
Alejandra turns, her eyes landing on the spot Lala pointed to. Her throat bobs and her eyes fill with tears. She turns quickly and clears her throat.
“What—what happened?” she asks, still not looking at her.
“I don’t—” she says, as a sharp memory of Brooke’s hands clamped around her surges forward, and her own hand drifts instinctively to her chin.
Alejandra pulls her in, letting Valeria sag into her shoulder, as her arms tighten around her. A sob slips out of her—a small, broken sound that Valeria can’t hold in anymore.
“I think we’re done,” Valeria whispers. A heavy, dull pain settles all over her body, and something inside her folds in on itself, collapsing into a dim, quiet space where even her thoughts move slowly.
“It all happened so fast, I can’t remember what I said,” Valeria chokes out. “I was just so scared, it’s all that pushed me through.”
“I’m so sorry, Val,” Alejandra says into the crook of Valeria’s neck. “You’re safe now,” she soothes. She gently pushes Valeria off by the shoulder until their eyes meet. “I’m so fucking proud of you,” Alejandra adds through a sob.
Valeria bows her head, shame coursing through her as she counts the many times she let moments like tonight slip past without a second thought.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but we need to get some ice on your face, Val,” Clara says, before biting her bottom lip, as if doing her best to keep it from quivering.
Valeria nods.
A few seconds later, Clara hands her a large ice pack. Valeria presses it to one side of her face, and Alejandra frowns.
“You might want to hold it along your entire chin,” Alejandra says, her gaze lingering on the other side of Valeria’s face.
“What?” Valeria asks, rising to her feet before she’s had the chance to process the movement.
In three quick steps, she’s in front of a mirror in their living room.
That’s when she sees four bruises blooming across her skin.
One on the left side of her face and three on her right.
A perfect mark of where Brooke’s fingers had been.
Valeria hadn’t realized how hard Brooke was holding her in the moments, but now, with her skin slightly red and violet, she can’t lie to herself about it.
A hand flies to her mouth, but it isn’t fast enough to catch the broken sound that slips out.
“Is this the first time?” Alejandra asks gently, already moving toward her, guiding her away from the mirror.
Valeria shakes her head. Shame burns too fiercely in her throat for words.
“Fuck,” Alejandra whispers, voice cracking as a tear tracks down her cheek.
“We’re so sorry, Val,” Clara says.
“It’s not your fault,” Valeria says quickly. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to.”
Alejandra swallows hard. “Still, maybe if we hadn’t made it so hard to talk about her, you would have felt safe enough to tell us what was really happening.”
Valeria shakes her head again, more firmly this time.
“I wouldn’t have,” Valeria answers with as much conviction as she can muster.
“I was always going to protect her.” Her voice thins.
“I probably wouldn’t have told you about this if it wasn’t on my face,” she says, playing with a thread hanging from her sleeve.
Alejandra’s eyes settle on Valeria, soft and sad. “What do you need, Val? Do you want to stay here tonight? Clara and I can fix up the pull-out, and we can stay out here with you.”
“I . . . yeah. That would be nice,” Valeria manages, though her voice barely cooperates. The thought of being alone in her apartment twists in her chest. That’s a sure way to get me to spiral, she thinks.
When Valeria looks up, Alejandra’s expression shifts. There is a softness there, but it’s strained tight with worry, almost like Alejandra is afraid of losing sight of her. Valeria understands the fear. She would feel it, too, if the roles were reversed.
She has never handled her breakups with Brooke well.
She’s made a habit of shutting everyone out, forgetting to eat, letting everything beyond the breakup fray and fall apart because she doesn’t know how to sit with the hurt.
Her sadness seeps into every corner of her life until it consumes her whole.
The last time Brooke walked out, the girls made her promise she would reach for one of them, that she would lean in instead of disappearing. That promise is the reason she is here now. She can’t do this alone.
She needs her family.
“Why don’t you and I go get dinner ready?” Clara asks Lala, motioning for her to follow.
“Oh, good idea,” Lala replies as she stands.
“Thanks, babe,” Alejandra says as she watches them disappear into the kitchen.
After the last of the flautas Lala made for dinner are eaten, they settle into the living room and put on a show, but Valeria barely follows it.
Her thoughts loop relentlessly around one thing: this is it.
Brooke isn’t coming back, and even if she does, Valeria is done.
It’s something she doesn’t know how to make peace with—but she’s determined to follow it.
All night, Valeria dissolves into tears until sleep finally drags her under, only to wake up and do it all over again. She keeps waking up in the dark, each time with tears already on her face, as if her body is crying before she’s conscious.
Clara and Alejandra hold her through each sob.
Sandwiching her in between them as they stroke her hair and whisper how much they love her, how the pain is temporary, how she’ll be okay, but no matter how much Valeria wants to believe it, she knows she won’t be; that she won’t ever recover from this.