24. Valentina
— ? —
Valentina
The call comes on my day off.
A number I don’t recognize. I almost don’t answer. But something makes me pick up.
“Ms. Montero? This is Rachel Garcia from Apex Marketing Group. We received your resume and portfolio from a colleague, and we’d like to discuss a potential opportunity.”
I sit up so fast I nearly knock over my coffee.
“I’m sorry, my portfolio?”
“Yes, your work samples from three years ago. Sarah Mitchell recommended you. She said you were the best strategist she ever worked with before you… left the industry.”
Sarah. My old colleague. The one who sent a sympathy card when the slap video went viral and I disappeared.
“I’d love to discuss the opportunity,” I manage.
The interview is scheduled for Thursday.
I spend three days preparing. Reviewing my old work. Researching the company. Practicing answers to the questions I know they’ll ask.
When I walk into that office, I’m terrified.
When I walk out, I’m hopeful.
The interviewer, a woman named Diana with sharp eyes and an even sharper handshake, doesn’t mention the video until the end.
“I’m going to be direct,” she says. “I’ve seen the footage. Everyone has. I need to know if that’s going to be a problem.”
I take a breath. “It was a moment of extreme emotional distress after discovering my husband’s affair. It was wrong. I’ve learned from it. And it has nothing to do with my ability to deliver results.”
Diana studies me. Then nods.
“Good answer. We’ll be in touch.”
Two days later, she calls with an offer. Contract position. Junior strategist. The pay is modest but real.
It’s mine.
I call Marianna first.
“Are you serious? Val! This is amazing!” She screams so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “I’m so proud of you. But wait, does this mean you’re quitting the restaurant?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe. I haven’t decided.”
“You haven’t decided? Girl, you got a real job. A career job. What’s to decide?”
“I need to think about it.”
There’s a pause. Then, softer: “You need to tell Eric.”
“I know.”
That night, he picks me up for dinner. I wait until we’re seated, until the wine is poured, until I can’t put it off anymore.
“I got a job offer.”
His fork pauses halfway to his mouth. “What kind of job?”
“Marketing. A real firm. Contract position, but it could turn into something permanent.” I study his face, looking for disappointment, for possessiveness, for any sign that he wants to keep me where I am. “It’s what I used to do. Before.”
He sets down his fork. His expression is unreadable.
“When do you start?”
“Next Monday. If I accept.”
“If?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Why not?”
Because accepting means admitting I don’t need the restaurant anymore. Means admitting I don’t need the excuse to see you every day. Means building a life that doesn’t depend on you at all.
“I just wanted to tell you first,” I say instead.
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then his face breaks into something I’ve never seen before. Pride. Real, genuine pride.
“Valentina. This is incredible.”
“You’re not upset?”
“Why would I be upset?”
“Because I’ll be leaving the restaurant. Because you won’t be able to keep an eye on me anymore.”
“I never wanted to keep an eye on you. I wanted you to succeed.” He reaches across the table. Takes my hand. “When do you put in notice?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t-”
“Put in notice. Take the job. Build something that’s yours.” His thumb strokes my knuckles. “I’ll still see you. Just not at work.”
“You really don’t mind?”
“Mind? I’m proud of you. You went from sleeping in a motel to getting a job offer in your actual field. In months. While fighting a divorce. While dealing with me.” He shakes his head. “You’re the most impressive person I’ve ever met.”
My eyes are stinging. I blink hard.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He lifts my hand. Presses his lips to my knuckles.
“That’s my girl.”
The words slip out like he didn’t mean to say them. His eyes widen slightly. But he doesn’t take them back.
We both freeze.
The words hang there between us, heavy with meaning neither of us is ready to unpack.
That’s my girl.
I should say something. Should make a joke, break the tension, remind him that I’m not actually his anything.
Instead, I just look at him.
And for the first time, I don’t try to hide what I’m feeling.