Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
VALERIA
After drinks with Camila, Valeria stops by her apartment to grab a couple of clean uniforms, trying to kill some time before heading to Clara and Alejandra’s.
Coming here wasn’t exactly her first choice, but Clara and Alejandra are at bingo with Lala, and Lily and Isabella are at an art gallery in Seattle.
She tried to hold Camila up as long as she could, but eventually she had to head home to feed Miso.
So here she is.
Even pulling into her complex feels overwhelming.
When she parks in her usual spot, she sits in the car, engine ticking softly, gathering herself for the simple, impossible act of going inside.
She takes a few steadying breaths, lingering in the hallway before forcing herself to walk up to her door.
She lives on the first floor, so the walk should be short, but every step drags, and the walk feels longer than it should.
When she reaches her door, Valeria is digging through her bag for her house keys—she really needs to attach them to her car keys.
Finally, she fishes the keys out, but as she’s about to slide one into the lock, she freezes.
There’s an envelope taped right above the lock, and her name is written across the front in swoopy cursive.
Valeria doesn’t have to open it to know who it’s from. That handwriting belongs to one person and one person only. She’d recognize it anywhere.
Brooke’s.
Suddenly, the hallway feels colder, like the air itself has stepped back from her.
Anxiety churns in her gut as her fingers close around the letter; her eyes are already stinging, and her vision is blurring.
It’s as if her body understands what’s inside—what’s waiting for her—long before her mind does.
She can’t open it, can’t even look at it. So she shoves it deep into her bag, her hands shaking.
Forgetting entirely why she was there in the first place, she turns and walks back to her car, pulling her phone out and calling the only person that makes sense to her right now. Camila.
The line rings twice before Camila picks up.
“Hey, Val, what’s up?” she says in that gentle tone of hers.
“Can I—” Valeria wavers between words, the question shrinking on her tongue, suddenly feeling silly.
“Val?” Camila says, a little worried now.
“Can I come over?” Valeria asks, the dread in her gut overriding whatever embarrassment she felt.
“Yes, of course. Do you remember my address?
“I do.” Valeria exhales, relieved. “I’m on my way.”
Valeria doesn’t know how she remembers the way to Camila’s.
Still, she’s grateful her brain decided that memorizing the exit number and the three turns to the right were important things to file away for later.
Valeria arrives at Camila’s house in twenty-five minutes.
She shaved about five minutes off her previous drive, thanks to a bit of speeding.
The moment Valeria pulls up, she spots Camila on the porch, a cigarette glowing between her fingers. Valeria parks out front, and Camila stands, already moving to meet her in the driveway.
“You got here quick,” Camila says, with an eyebrow raised. “You okay?”
“Brooke left a note taped to my door, and I needed someone. Clara and Alejandra are at bingo, and Isabella and Lily are in Seattle, and I didn’t want to make any of them cut their plans short because of me.
Then I remembered you offered, so here I am,” Valeria says quickly, dumping it all out without a single breath.
“Makes sense.” Camila nods. “I’m glad you’re here. Why don’t we get you inside? It’s supposed to rain soon.”
Valeria looks at the sky, the gray clouds taking over. “Good idea.”
Once inside, Camila walks Valeria toward the living room. The air smells faintly of lemon, probably from a recent cleaning. Valeria sinks onto the plush couch, the fabric cool against her skin, and places her bag on the smooth wooden coffee table.
“Where is it?” Camila asks softly.
“In my bag.” Just the thought of it makes Valeria’s stomach twist. And a wave of sadness washes over her, a tightening in her chest making it hard to breathe fully.
“Do you want something to drink before you open it?” Camila asks. “Do you even want to open it?”
“I don’t know,” Valeria says after a few seconds, her voice sounding small.
“You don’t owe her anything; you can toss it if you need to.”
“I know,” Valeria says while looking at her bag.
Does she want to read the letter? No, not really, but she also knows that ignoring it will only prolong the pain, and she’s far too nosy to throw it away without a peek.
Camila heads into the kitchen, bringing back two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. Camila pours the amber liquid, ice clinking in the glasses, then she hands one to Valeria.
“For whenever you’re ready.”
Valeria takes the glass and stares at it, her leg bouncing up and down.
“Fuck it,” she whispers, taking the shot, and reaching for her bag, ripping the envelope open.
Brooke’s handwriting spills out in soft, looping strokes, and Valeria’s vision blurs instantly. The bourbon curdles in her stomach, and she can feel it trying to climb its way back up.
She looks at Camila.
“You’re strong, and you can stop at any point,” Camila reminds her.
With that last bit of reassurance, Valeria unfolds the pages.
I’ve rewritten this letter so many times, and each time I don’t know where to begin, so I’ll start by saying that I love you.
God, I love you more than I ever expected to love anyone, and that’s why this feels like I’m tearing off my own skin, but loving you hasn’t magically made me into the person you need .
. . or the person I hoped I could be for you.
The truth is, I’m not strong enough to sit across from you and say what I need to out loud.
I know your beautiful face too well. I’ve learned every expression you make when something hurts you, even when you’re trying not to show it, and I know that if I tried to tell you in person, I’d crumble.
I’d take it all back to stop the hurt from showing in your eyes.
So this letter is cowardly, but it’s the only way I can follow through.
I’ve been going to therapy for months now.
I didn’t tell you, not because you didn’t deserve to know, but because I kept hoping I could fix myself in the background, and still show up for you the way you deserved.
My therapist suggested a while ago that I step back, but I ignored her.
I thought I could heal and love you at the same time.
Now I realize that I can’t. What happened a few days ago was not okay.
I know that, and you had every reason to leave me.
To me, you were safety, warmth, and hope. I wasn’t, and I see that now. I am not steady. Keeping you while I’m like this would only drag you down with me, drag you further down with me, I should say, because I know I’ve caused you so much pain.
I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for not being better.
I’ve spent so long pretending I was enough for you, pretending I could be the partner you deserved, when deep down I knew I wasn’t.
You gave me patience, kindness, a version of love I had never had before, and I gave you .
. . the parts of me I hadn’t bothered to fix.
The parts that kept hurting you without meaning to.
The parts I kept swearing I’d work on “soon.”
You were too good to be dragged through my mess, and I let you anyway. I’m sorry it took me this long to see how much damage my untreated trauma has caused.
Thank you for loving me the way you did, even when I didn’t deserve it. I will love you in this life and the next.
- B
“How dare she?” Valeria whispers as a single tear traces a path down her cheek, blurring the ink, she quickly wipes it away.
Camila sits beside her, her hand moving in slow, steady circles across Valeria’s back.
A sob slips out of Valeria’s lips as she thinks of all the pain and sadness over these last few years, and anger settles in.
Brooke’s apology, her going to therapy, and her acknowledging the pain she caused is late, it’s all so fucking late.
Valeria’s jaw clenches, and the muscles in her neck tighten as the pounding in her ears grows louder.
“What does it say?”
Valeria hands Camila the letter, but Camila doesn’t read it. Instead, she sets it carefully on the coffee table, as if she’s letting Valeria decide what to share.
“She’s telling me how she’s been going to therapy, and she never deserved me,” Valeria says. “Apologizing for not being better.” She cracks each one of her fingers, a restless habit, trying to shake the tension from her body.
“Maybe it’s her way of still having some control over the situation.” Camila keeps her voice soft. “Do you think this is her trying to set the stage to get you back? Give you some hope that therapy will help her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” Valeria says, her head down, rubbing her eyes until she sees flashes of color.
Camila leans forward slightly, but not crowding her “How does the letter make you feel?”
“Angry. Sad.”
Camila nods slowly. “That makes sense.” She draws a breath to speak, but doesn’t. A few seconds later, she asks, “What happened? What made you break up with her?”
“I don’t know,” Valeria says quietly. “The girls have asked so many times, and every time I come up empty.” She stares into her glass, hoping the answer will magically appear.
“Most of that night is . . . gone, as if someone wiped it clean. All I remember is overwhelming fear. Next thing I knew, Brooke was yelling that I’d regret it.
” Her throat tightens. “Then she was walking out the door.”
Camila doesn’t rush her. She lets the silence settle before gently asking, “And the bruises?”
Valeria brings a hand up to her chin, fingertips grazing the faint marks there. She turns her head, suddenly embarrassed Camila can see them.