4
Breaking Through the Block
Clara
For years, I’ve known that silence is my best defense mechanism.
I’m not referring to the awkward silence of someone who doesn’t know what to say at a gathering, but to that other, much more sophisticated, strategic, and selective kind—the one that helps me keep the rest of the world at a safe and prudent distance.
That invisible wall that prevents other people’s prying questions from eliciting inconvenient answers from me.
I live wonderfully this way, fully settled into a meticulously planned routine, and those quiet dinners where no one expects grand emotional confessions from me and where a good bottle of wine is finished just as naturally as other people express their affection.
My work comes first. Always. It’s a simple, clear, precise, and, above all, safe rule for living.
That’s exactly why it irritates me that Alicia has found the exact crack to worm her way into my head, absolutely certain that I’ll end up adapting to her, by hook or by crook.
I’ve only been overseeing her daily private rehab sessions for three days, and I already feel like my patience has aged ten years overnight.
It’s quite late by the time I finally get home.
It’s been pouring rain all afternoon, and the sidewalks still have that damp, dark sheen so typical of England.
I climb the steps to my building, feeling the physical exhaustion weighing on my back and clutching the cold keys between my fingers.
As soon as I open the front door, the soothing scent of sandalwood incense—which I always keep burning in the living room—immediately envelops my senses.
My home is a spacious, understated, bright space, with large windows framing the British night.
A gray designer sofa, impeccable bookshelves arranged by color, and an open kitchen where every single damn object occupies—of course—its exact rightful place.
Order. I desperately need mental order. And tonight, after enduring the stares of a certain forward, I need it more than ever in my life.
“If you keep taking this long to get back, I’m going to end up assuming you have a secret double life and that you actually work as a surgeon for the Russian mafia,” Dani blurts out from the kitchen as soon as he hears the click of the lock.
I smile immediately, set my gym bag on the floor of the entryway, and slowly take off my coat, reveling like a little kid in the blessed relief of finally being back in my safe haven.
“I’m really sorry to disappoint you, but you’re going to have to accept that my real life is far less interesting and glamorous,” I call out so he can hear me clearly as I take off my shoes and place them in their exact spot, lined up next to the door.
“I don’t know what to tell you. Physical therapists with that icy, unapproachable look usually hide the darkest and juiciest secrets on the planet. Or at least that’s what I sincerely hope, because otherwise, my precious friendship with you would be a total waste when it comes to gossip.”
I walk into the kitchen and find him pouring two generous glasses of red wine with the absolute familiarity of someone who doesn’t need to ask permission to open my cabinets.
Dani is one of those very few people who survive unscathed by all my different sides, even the most unbearable ones.
We’ve known each other since the chaotic college years, when we were both much younger, insultingly arrogant, and still believed with blind faith that the problems of love could be solved with pure logic, intelligence, and a good strategic plan.
Now he’s a fairly successful architect; he wears black plastic-framed glasses that I suspect he doesn’t really need to correct his nearsightedness, and he possesses the deeply irritating gift of reading my mind better than anyone else in the world.
I hate him with all my might for that. And that’s exactly why I love him so much.
“I see you’ve invaded my private property again without warning, you scoundrel.”
“I whipped up a spectacular pasta dish and brought it to you piping hot. Technically, I’m a social benefactor of your mental health. Or an intruder with the right to physical contact and culinary perks, depending on how you look at it,” he adds, giving me a mischievous smile and a wink.
I stare at the kitchen counter with monumental skepticism.
“You’re not fooling me. That container tells me the pasta looks suspiciously like it was bought at the Italian restaurant on the corner.”
“Hey, don’t ruin my fantasy of being an international chef, Clara, please. At least let me pretend in front of you that I’m a great catch and a family man.”
I laugh for the first time all day and lean back against the kitchen island, finally relaxing as he hands me the glass of red wine. The first sip is a warm, delicious balm that spreads straight through my chest, loosening my tense muscles.
“Thanks for being here,” I murmur sincerely, looking at him.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Now, please sit down at the table and tell me once and for all why you look like a stressed-out person who’s been having a heated argument with her own conscience for the past few hours.”
With the pasta dishes ready, we settle down at the table in the living room. The rain taps against the window again, and the city seems much farther away—almost ethereal—from where we’re sitting. The warm light from the lamp hanging above us creates an atmosphere that invites confidences.
Normally, talking about anything with Dani is a breeze for me. Tonight, I feel like the words are stuck in my throat and refuse to come out. The thing is, the main problem with my insomnia has a name, a pair of legs to die for, and a cocky smile that I find completely unbearable.
I try with all my might to focus on dinner—on the flavor of the sauce, on the aftertaste of the wine—on any detail that doesn’t involve conjuring up the mental image of Alicia leaning brazenly against the rehab table, staring at me as if every damn conversation between us were a private provocation and a perverse game whose rules only she knows.
But it’s no use. Self-deception doesn’t work for me.
“So, can you tell me what planet you’re on right now?” Dani asks me suddenly, pausing with his fork and twirling it slowly between his fingers. “Because physically you’re sitting here having dinner with me, yes, but mentally you seem to be orbiting in a galaxy far, far away.”
I look up from my plate, meet his inquisitive gaze, and let out a huge sigh.
“Nothing’s wrong, really. I’m just mulling over a complicated issue at work at the club.”
He takes a sip from his glass without taking his analytical eyes off me for even a single millimeter.
“Are you mulling over a complicated work issue, or are you mulling over someone very complicated at work? Don’t try to pull one of your little white lies on me, Clara Valle—I know you all too well.”
I sigh even more deeply this time, resigning myself to the evidence, and set my fork down on my plate with a sharp clink.
“Don’t start with your theories, Dani—I’m begging you.”
“Oh, if you don’t deny it immediately and indignantly, I might take that as a full-fledged confession of guilt.”
I lean back in my chair, cross my arms over my chest, and strike my best pose of indifference.
“Seriously, it’s no big deal.”
Dani smiles from ear to ear with that exasperating calm of someone who knows perfectly well that he’s just won the game and has me cornered.
“That damn phrase, ‘it’s no big deal,’ should be strictly prohibited by the laws of the gossip court. No one uses it when nothing’s really going on. Come on, spit it out already, you pain in the neck. What happened at that sports complex?”
I shake my head resignedly, even though part of me already knows full well that I lost this conversation the very moment I slipped the key into the door.
“Well… A few days ago, a new star player joined the team—a million-dollar signing,” I begin, trying to choose each word with the utmost care so as not to give myself away.
“Ah…” he replies instantly, loading that single syllable with a thousand hidden meanings.
“Don’t make that little sound with your mouth—I know you too well.”
“What little sound?” he asks, putting on a look of innocence that even he doesn’t believe.
“That one. That tone of someone who’s unbearably interested in watching my perfect emotional stability crumble.”
“Go on with the report, please—you’re keeping me in suspense. What’s she like? Is she pretty? Is she the type who causes trouble in the locker room? Give me some juicy details, woman.”
I look at him with an expression of utter psychological exhaustion and take another big sip of wine before continuing with my confession.
“She’s the team’s new center forward. She’s amazing—a true standout on the field, probably one of the best in all of Europe.
But I’ll also tell you she’s the most arrogant, undisciplined, and defiant woman I’ve ever met.
She has a supernatural ability to test my professional patience and push it to limits I didn’t even know existed within me. ”
Dani slams his fork down on the table and leans forward excitedly, resting his forearms on the table, clearly entertained by my drama.
“Everything you’re telling me sounds perfect. I’m officially head over heels in love with her without even knowing her. What’s this hottie’s name?”
“Don’t joke about this—it’s serious,” I warn him, glaring at him.
“I’m not joking at all—you’re the one trying to change the subject so you don’t have to get to the point. Keep going.”
I press my lips together tightly, regretting having opened this can of worms, but the wine and the blind trust I have in this man end up loosening my tongue.