Chapter 13 #2
“I didn’t realize they were there,” she admits. “Alejandra pointed them out. Brooke did grab my face, but I thought I was just sore.”
Camila exhales sharply. “Fuck, Val. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Valeria shakes her head, a bitter half-smile tugging at her lips. “It’s not the first time, plus I let it happen.” Her voice drops. “It’s my fault.”
Camila’s expression hardens. “No. Absolutely not.” She leans forward, her voice firm but calm as she takes both of Valeria’s hands in hers. “Her hurting you is not your fault. Ever. No one has the right to put their hands on you. Not once. Not ever.”
Valeria’s lip trembles. “I know,” she says quickly, nodding. “I do. It’s just . . . everything was always my fault with Brooke. Each argument. Every bad day. I think at one point I accepted that this was too, that her hurting me was because I pushed her too far.”
Camila’s eyes soften, and she cups Valeria’s cheek with aching gentleness. “I can’t imagine what that did to you. Carrying that around.”
Valeria nods, swallowing hard before she slowly leans into Camila’s touch. There’s a tenderness in it she hasn’t felt in years. “It’s something I’ll need to unlearn.”
Camila reaches for the bottle, pours them another shot of bourbon, and slides it across the table. “Then here’s to unlearning,” she says.
Valeria lifts the glass, her fingers steadier this time. They clink their glasses, and the bourbon burns all the way down Valeria’s throat, setting a tiny fire in her stomach.
“Wow, that’s strong. I probably should have had something other than a protein shake before drinking all this.”
“Here,” Camila says, passing Valeria a remote. “Put something on; I’ll make us food.”
Valeria takes the remote. As Camila turns, Valeria reaches for her hand, almost without thinking, her fingers closing softly around Camila’s. Camila slows, then stills, her gaze dropping to where Valeria is holding her.
“Thank you,” Valeria murmurs, before her shoulders slump and the corners of her mouth dip slightly.
“Anytime.” Camila gently squeezes Valeria’s hand. The reassurance in the simple contact fills Valeria with such calm that she thinks it should be impossible for anyone to feel so steady.
When Valeria lets go, Camila disappears into the kitchen, and Valeria tries to find something for them to watch.
Based on Camila’s recently watched movies, Valeria can tell she loves thrillers.
So she quickly searches for the top thrillers and makes a list. When she’s happy with the shows she’s picked, Valeria lies on the couch, watching as the first drops of rain streak down Camila’s bay windows.
The oven beeps—a sharp little chime in the quiet—and it startles Valeria awake. She doesn’t know when she fell asleep, but it was long enough that Camila laid a blanket over her.
She pulls the blanket off her body and drifts into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
The second she walks into the kitchen, Camila pulls a tray from the oven and sets it over a cooling rack.
“Hey,” Valeria murmurs.
“Hey, sleepy,” Camila says with a gentle smile.
“I’m sorry I fell asleep. I’m a lot more tired than I realized,” Valeria says through a yawn.
Camila’s head turns to the side, and she purses her lips. “You apologize for the silliest things, you know that?” she says with a sideways smile.
Valeria gives her a small, almost embarrassed smile in response. “Yeah . . . it’s a habit. With Brooke, I was always apologizing. Half the time, I didn’t even know what for. Mostly just doing it to avoid an argument.”
“That sounds exhausting. You don’t have to do that here,” Camila says quietly. “Not with me.”
“I know. It’s just . . . hard to shut it off.”
Camila frowns, a furrow forming between her brows as her jaw tightens. Valeria can tell she’s looking for the right words.
“Those smell amazing.” Valeria gestures toward the tray, trying to get the attention off herself and move the conversation anywhere else.
Camila nudges the tray toward her. “Help yourself. They’re still warm.”
Valeria grabs one, almost relieved to have something else to focus on. “God, these look perfect,” she says, turning it over in her hand. “What is it?”
“P?o de queijo,” Camila says.
Valeria’s eyes linger on the food, “Is it bread? I don’t think I can have these . . . I have a gluten allergy,” she says, disappointment soft in her voice.
“It’s a cheesy bread made with cassava flour, which is gluten-free, but noted. I should have asked.”
Valeria brightens. “That sounds delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever had them.”
“They’re my favorite,” Camila admits. “Though I haven’t tried this place yet, so if they’re not a good representation, I’ll just have to make you some.”
Valeria raises an eyebrow. “You bake?”
“Dangerously well,” Camila smiles and winks, the corners of her eyes crinkling.
“In that case, I might never go back to Alejandra and Clara’s. They are both terrible cooks,” Valeria teases.
Camila laughs under her breath and breaks the bread open, steam curling up. She takes her first bite, and Valeria watches her expression shift—surprise first, then approval.
“Okay, wow,” she says, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s as good as it gets.”
When Valeria takes a big bite, the thin crust delicately crisps, giving way to a soft, springy center before the cheese melts across her tongue—salty and rich. She chews slowly, savoring it, then nods. “Oh yeah,” she says softly. “This is amazing. I still want to try yours, though.”
“Trust me, they are not this good.” Camila laughs.
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
“You know what? Yeah, they are amazing. I’ll have to make them for us sometime.”
They eat a few more, and eventually wander into the living room. Valeria pulls out her notes and reads off her list of shows to watch, but to her disappointment, Camila has seen them all. So they end up playing a random documentary about magic mushrooms and lying on opposite sides of the couch.
Valeria can’t quite explain the calmness she’s felt all evening.
Today should be one of her hardest days.
That note from Brooke should be breaking her into a million sharp, glittering pieces, but somehow, with Camila’s gentleness close by, the pain has dulled.
It’s still there, persistent and irritating, but it’s more like a pebble in her shoe rather than a blade to the chest.
She feels it when her mind strays for even a second, but it no longer owns her. For now, Valeria allows herself this strange mercy: to sit, to breathe, to not be shattered all at once, and she doesn’t want it to end.
“Do you mind if I stay tonight?” Valeria asks timidly.
Camila looks up from where she’s lying, one arm tucked behind her head, her expression soft. “Not at all,” she says. “Stay as long as you want.”
A small smile plays on Valeria’s lips, and a warmth spreads through her chest, a pleasant counterpoint to the underlying tension that hums beneath her skin.