Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
CAMILA
Camila hasn’t heard from Valeria in days, and worry is creeping in.
The last message she received from her was about Miso’s medication.
The next day, Camila messaged her to say Miso was all better, but she never got a reply.
Which, okay, isn’t a reason to worry; she probably got busy or something.
Since then, Camila has texted her a few more times to check in, and there’s been no response.
The only comfort she has is that Valeria’s read receipts are on, so she knows she’s seen them.
Camila has started to consider asking Ella if she knows what’s going on, but that feels like a boundary she should not cross.
Especially since Ella thinks Camila has feelings for Valeria.
So, with no way to contact her and nothing else to occupy her mind, Camila has started to wonder whether Valeria realized their friendship was too much for her to handle and didn’t know how to tell her, so ghosting her was the next best thing.
It doesn’t match the image Camila has in her head about Valeria, but truthfully, how well could she know someone she just met?
Regardless of why or what is going on, Camila is on her way to her mother’s, and she needs to focus on how to get through that above all else. Her endless spiral on Valeria can wait.
She’s been dreading this since she agreed.
The only thing she’s looking forward to is hugging her dad, who will probably disappear into his study the second lunch is over, leaving her unattended with her mom, which wouldn’t be a big deal if Camila didn’t have the most awful gut feeling about the day.
For the past few hours, all she has wondered is what her mom needs to tell her that’s so serious it has to be in person. All of her online research on strokes and their aftermath has her spiraling, diagnosing her mom with all sorts of things.
When she pulls up to her parents’ gate, she enters the code they’ve had since she was born, but of course, it fails. Probably her mom’s subtle way of letting her know it’s been a long time since she visited. Because what present child doesn’t have the code to their parents’ gate?
“Of course,” Camila whispers before hitting the call buzzer.
“Yes?” a voice she doesn’t recognize asks.
“Hi, I’m here to see my parents.”
“Name?”
“Camila,” she answers, doing her best not to roll her eyes. It’s not this woman’s fault. It’s probably another subtle jab her mom added to try to make her feel bad about how much distance she’s put between them until now.
After a few seconds, the gates slide open, and Camila drives through, her nerves already humming. She parks near the four-car garage, hoping she isn’t blocking anyone. With one last steadying breath, Camila heads for the front door.
She barely has time to lift her hand before it swings open, and her mother greets her with a sharp, “You’re late,” her perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised.
Camila glances down at her watch. She’s only three minutes past twelve, but she doesn’t argue. “Sorry,” she says instead.
Her mother hums. “Come in.”
When Camila steps in and takes her mother in entirely, her chest tightens.
She’s always been a thin woman, but her mother looks fragile now.
Without thinking, Camila reaches for her and pulls her in tightly.
The scent of her floral perfume eases some of Camila’s nerves.
Her mother tenses beneath the embrace before she eases into it.
“It’s good to see you,” her mother whispers.
“You too, Mom,” Camila replies, and she means it. No matter how much they butt heads, Camila loves her, even if she loves her the most from afar.
“Is that meu corac?o?” Camila’s dad’s deep voice booms down the hall.
At the sound of it, Camila’s shoulders loosen, tension melting from her spine. Her nerves smooth over a little more when she spots him rounding the corner, arms already opening wide.
“Hi, Dad,” Camila says, stepping into him and letting herself be swallowed whole.
He’s six-foot-two and built thick; the man’s sheer height should be intimidating, but he’s the biggest teddy bear Camila has ever known, all warmth and safety wrapped in a massive embrace.
“How have you been?” he asks as he lets go.
“Good.” Camila smiles.
“You look good. Love the hair.” He rustles it gently the way he has since she was a kid.
“Thanks,” Camila says, not bothering to stop him.
“Why don’t we head toward the dining room. Lunch should be served soon,” her mother says.
Camila’s dad winks toward her. “Of course, patroa,” he says, and gives his wife his arm. She takes it, and Camila follows after them.
The house hasn’t changed much since the last time she was here—ten-ish years ago.
There’s been some updates to the furniture, and the walls are now a sickening white, but everything else is the same—the same artwork hanging from where it always has, the same layout.
Which Camila thinks is wild. She re-arranges her furniture at least once a month when the feng shui feels off.
When they step into the dining room, Camila can’t help but spot four sets of tableware set out on the table.
She presses her lips together, trying to gaslight herself into thinking it’s a mistake, though she knows perfectly well her mother doesn’t make many of those, especially when it comes to table settings.
There are four plates because there will be four people. If her experience with this exact scenario is anything to go by, Camila can almost guarantee this is one of her mother’s setups. She doesn’t know why she thought they were done with this, especially after last time.
Her mom had set her up with a particularly pushy guy, who thought her disinterest in him was her playing hard to get.
By the end of dinner, Camila emptied her red wine on his head, staining his perfectly tan jacket.
Her mother was furious, but at least he finally understood that she was indeed not interested.
Truthfully, even at thirty-one, Camila isn’t above an encore, so whoever is coming had better be warned to wear something waterproof.
Her mother must see her staring at the extra table setting, because before Camila can ask, she says, “We’re having one of your father’s most prominent associates join us. I hope that’s okay with you.”
I hope that’s okay with you; it plays on a loop in Camila’s mind. It’s not like she has a choice. She wants to say that, but she knows it’ll lead nowhere.
“Sure, Mom.” Camila rolls her shoulders. “I thought you had something important to talk to me about. Or at least, that’s what you said on the phone.” Camila narrows her eyes at her.
“Did I?” her mother asks, feigning naivety. “I don’t recall, honey, I’m sorry.”
It takes all of Camila’s willpower not to roll her eyes.
Of course.
She should have known.
This was her mother’s plan all along; she knew if she worried Camila enough, she’d show up, no questions asked. She glances at her father, who mouths an “I’m sorry.” Camila wants to believe he didn’t know, but the odds of that are low.
He takes his usual seat at the head of the table, and her mother sits to his left, forcing Camila to sit to the right, where the extra plate is.
“Would you like anything to drink?” her mother asks.
Camila nods. “Whiskey, please,” she answers with a smile, ignoring her mother’s appalled face. If she’s intent on making Camila’s day uncomfortable, she might as well give her something strong enough to get her through it.
“Make that two, meu amor, neat, please.”
Her mother stands and heads toward the end of the dining room where the bar cart sits.
“So, who is this mystery guest?” Camila asks,
“The firm’s newest associate. Extremely sharp. Graduated from my alma mater,” her dad answers proudly, like he’s talking about his own kid.
“Here,” her mother says, setting a glass of wine in front of Camila and the whiskey she asked for in front of her father.
Camila drinks the entire glass in one sip, before she reaches for her father’s whiskey, sipping it and pretending it doesn’t burn all the way down.
He looks at Camila, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, thoroughly amused.
“Thanks, Mom, you’re right, I needed both.”
“Camila! What is wrong with you?” her mother shouts in disbelief.
Thankfully, before her mom can go off on a tangent about how unladylike she is, the doorbell rings.
“Please behave yourself from here on out,” her mother begs, taking the whiskey glass from Camila.
“When don’t I?” Camila smiles innocently.
She knows she’s acting childish; she doesn’t mean to. There’s something about being with her mom that makes her forget she’s a full-blown adult.
A few seconds later, a tall woman with an impressively tailored suit and long brown hair walks through the doors.
Camila turns toward her mother, eyebrows knitted together, probably looking the definition of confused, but her mother doesn’t see her; she’s too busy beaming at the woman, walking right up to her.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. The Bettersons held me up on a call on my way here.”
“Oh, honey, don’t worry about it. We completely understand,” her mother says, which confuses Camila further because if there’s one thing she knows about her mother, it’s that she is a stickler for being on time.
“This is our daughter, Camila,” her mother says, guiding the woman toward her. “Camila, this is Zoe, your father’s newest and brightest associate.”
Camila stands and extends her hand. “Nice to meet you, Zoe,” she says as friendly as possible, but her mind is intensely confused.
She’d assumed the lunch guest would be a guy, like all the others her mom had insisted on introducing her to. Now, she isn’t sure what to make of this.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Zoe says, her gaze lingering on Camila before her eyes drop briefly to Camila’s lips—then back to her eyes.