Chapter 3
“Are you settled in yet, honey?”
Rebeca’s mother’s voice comes through the phone with a slightly worried tone, as if she knew her daughter needed to talk at that very moment. Rebeca holds the phone between her shoulder and her ear while pushing the shopping cart she grabbed upon entering the supermarket with one hand.
She’s in a small store in the Sardinero neighborhood, just a few blocks from her new apartment.
The store is bright, with narrow aisles that smell of freshly baked bread and fruit, a homely aroma that contrasts with the unease still throbbing beneath her skin.
At this hour of the morning, there are few people around.
A couple of elderly neighbors are chatting near the produce section with the leisurely pace of those who have all the time in the world, and a young woman is absentmindedly examining a shelf of canned goods.
Rebeca picks up a package of coffee and places it in the cart next to a package of her favorite Gullón cookies.
“More or less,” she replies, trying to make her words sound calm, almost carefree. “You know how I am. Until everything is in its place, I won’t feel completely at ease.”
As she speaks, she runs through the mental list she’s been compiling since she left home. Coffee, milk, some fruit, detergent, a light bulb for the living room lamp she decided to install the night before. Little things. Everyday objects that help turn an empty apartment into a livable place.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” her mother says with a soft laugh on the other end of the line, that laugh that has always been able to ease any tension.
“You’ve always been like that. When you were little, you couldn’t start your homework unless the table was perfectly tidy.
I remember you’d get absolutely furious if anyone moved a pencil. ”
Rebeca flashes a faint smile as she places a carton of milk in the cart. The gesture feels strange on her lips, as if her body hasn’t yet decided whether it’s allowed to smile after what happened as soon as she arrived.
“It ended up being useful,” she replies.
“Yeah, well…” Her mother pauses briefly, and Rebeca can almost see her frowning with that characteristic look of concern. “But it also means you’re working too hard. Not everything in life is about arranging books in alphabetical order, honey.”
The remark comes gently, though Rebeca recognizes the undertone of concern hidden behind it.
She moves on to the next aisle, where a small window lets in the light of the Santander sky. Outside, the wind gently rustles the leaves of the trees lining the sidewalk, and the distant murmur of the sea filters through the neighborhood sounds.
“I’m behind on my work,” Rebeca explains, picking up a bottle of extra virgin olive oil. “Between the move and the trip, I’ve lost several days. I’d rather catch up as soon as possible.”
“But you just told me a moment ago that you hadn’t met with the people from the publishing house yet,” her mother insists, as if she could read between the lines even over the phone.
“Are you sure everything’s okay? I don’t like it when you shut yourself off as soon as you arrive somewhere new. You’ve been doing that for years.”
Rebeca stops in front of the cleaning supplies aisle.
Her fingers absentmindedly trace the labels on the bottles as she considers the question.
The easy answer would be to say yes. That everything is fine.
That the city is quiet, that the apartment is nice, that she can see the sea from the window, and that her new life has just begun with the serenity she’s been searching for.
For a few seconds, she’s on the verge of doing just that.
But then the image appears again, clear and cruel.
The landing and Martina’s eyes locking onto hers as if six years hadn’t passed at all.
Rebeca inhales slowly, and the air tastes of salt and memories.
“Mom…”
Her voice sounds different even to her.
“Yes?”
“There’s something I haven’t told you.”
There is a silence on the other end of the line, attentive, filled with anticipation.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
Rebeca feels the weight of the words building up in her throat before she can say them, as if speaking them aloud would make something she’s wanted to keep buried come true.
“Martina lives in my building.”
Rebeca can perfectly imagine the look on her mother’s face right now. In fact, she can already hear her shuffling her feet across the floor.
“Martina?” she repeats, as if she still can’t quite believe it. “Martina… you mean Martina?”
“Yes.”
Rebeca lets out a small sigh that turns into almost a snort.
She turns her attention back to the cart and moves slowly toward the checkout, even though she still has a few things to buy.
The aisles seem narrower now, as if the shelves had moved closer to eavesdrop on her conversation with her mother.
“She lives in the apartment across the hall,” she adds a moment later.
Her mother takes a few seconds to respond. Rebeca can almost hear her processing the information, searching for the right words.
“Wow…” she says finally. “And I suppose you’ve already talked about it a bit, haven’t you?”
“More or less.”
Rebeca runs a hand over her forehead, feeling the slight cold sweat dampening her skin.
“The truth is, it was an awkward situation,” Rebeca clarifies immediately. “More than awkward. It was as if time had stopped and, at the same time, suddenly sped up. I slammed the door in her face, Mom. Literally. I didn’t even know what to do.”
“I can imagine,” her mother says. “And how did you feel?”
Rebeca continues the conversation as she walks through the aisles, feeling how every word she utters begins to stir up something she’d been trying to keep under control since the night before. Her pulse quickens just remembering it.
For a moment, all that can be heard is the distant murmur of the supermarket and the movement of customers passing by.
“Honey…” her mother says. “I know you had a really hard time when it ended. It was hard for you, harder than you let on to others.”
Rebeca clenches her jaw slightly. The words “it ended” sound like a euphemism too polite for what it really was: sleepless nights, tears, the feeling that a part of herself had been torn away.
“But six years have passed,” her mother continues. “You’ve built a life for yourself. You’ve moved on. You’re a strong woman, Rebeca. Don’t let this take away the peace you came to Santander to find. You told me yourself that you’d found the contract of your dreams. So hold on to it.”
Rebeca doesn’t respond right away. She picks up a bottle of detergent and puts it in the cart, as if the motion could anchor her to the present reality.
“Yes,” she murmurs, though she feels like a complete liar.
“You’ve already gotten past it; now it’s your turn to live happily for yourself, sweetheart.”
The phrase hangs in the air for a few seconds, laden with good intentions that mean very little to her at that moment. Rebeca tries to find within herself the conviction that her mother seems to have so clearly.
Has she gotten over it?
The question pops into her mind with a clarity that feels quite uncomfortable.
She remembers the way her heart pounded in her chest when she saw Martina on the landing.
The almost electric sensation that ran through her skin when her fingers brushed against the edge of the door.
The treacherous heat that settled in her stomach when she heard her voice.
If that’s what it means to have gotten over someone… let someone come and explain it to her.
“Yes, Mom,” Rebeca replies automatically, though she feels that every syllable betrays the truth. “Everything’s fine. Really.”
They talk for a few more minutes about trivial things, and when she hangs up, Rebeca stares at the phone screen for a moment before putting it in her pocket.
She leaves the supermarket with the bags in her hand.
The air outside is cool and smells of the sea, of saltpeter, and of a freedom that, suddenly, seems illusory to her.
She walks a few more blocks deeper into the neighborhood until she stops in front of a small home decor shop she saw the day before while exploring the area.
The window display is filled with ceramic lamps, wooden frames, and small decorative objects that look carefully selected—and perfect for her new home.
A discreet sign above the door announces the shop’s name in elegant lettering.
Rebeca goes inside.
The interior is warm and quiet. She listens to the background music—a distant piano—and inhales the scent of the scented candles arranged on a central table.
She leaves her bags in one of the lockers by the entrance and begins to wander around the place with curiosity, trying to let the surroundings distract her.
There are shelves full of handmade notebooks, glass vases, and small plants in clay pots. As she examines some picture frames, her mind inevitably returns to the conversation with her mother.
“You’ve gotten over it now.”
Rebeca picks up a ceramic object and turns it slowly in her hands, feeling its cool weight against her palms.
Is that really true?
She tries to imagine Martina as just a neighbor.
Someone she might occasionally run into in the elevator, exchange a polite greeting with, and go on with her life without looking back.
The idea sounds reasonable in theory. But something inside her resists, a hot knot that tightens every time she remembers her blue eyes.
And worst of all, she sometimes wonders who will be part of the equation of that “us.”
“You have to get it out of your head,” she murmurs to herself.
She puts the object back in its place and moves toward another shelf, running her fingers over the smooth surface of a vase.
Just then, the shop door opens.
The soft jingle of the bell hanging above the doorframe cuts through the silence with unexpected clarity. A familiar tingle runs down the back of her neck. Then she hears footsteps, and that unmistakable voice of the woman greeting the shop assistant.
“Good morning. Have you brought in the vanilla candles yet?”
Rebeca freezes. For a second, she considers running out of the store without looking back, but it’s already too late. Her heart begins to pound as she scans the room for a place to hide. She looks to the right, she looks to the left. “Over there.”
She moves toward a tall shelf filled with decorative boxes, trying to position herself with her back to the entrance.
She takes a deep breath.
“Don’t let her see me. Don’t let her see me. Don’t let her see me.”
She leans slightly to examine an object she isn’t actually seeing, her fingers trembling on the wooden surface.
The footsteps draw closer slowly, and as Rebeca tries to stay calm, her elbow lightly bumps the shelf.
And a figure stumbles.
Rebeca reacts quickly, but the movement catches the attention of the few people in the store.
“Rebeca?”
Martina’s voice sounds right behind her, low, surprised, with that hoarse undertone that always made her skin crawl.
Rebeca closes her eyes for a second before turning around, as if delaying the moment could change reality.
Martina is just a couple of steps away. The warm light of the store illuminates her face differently than it did the day before, softening the angles but accentuating the intensity of her gaze.
Her hair is slightly tousled by the wind, and she wears a cardigan that falls open over a simple T-shirt, revealing polka dots she knows all too well.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. Until Rebeca swallows, feeling the heat rise up her neck.
Martina looks as if she’s about to say something. Her lips part slightly, and her eyes drift down Rebeca’s body for a moment before returning to her face.
“Wow… I’m starting to think fate is laughing at us.”
“The neighborhood isn’t that big,” Rebeca replies without thinking.
Suddenly, her phone rings again. Rebeca looks down at the screen and reads the name Ariadna Lobo.
She answers immediately, grateful for the interruption.
“I was expecting your call,” she says, and quickly turns away, turning her back on Martina as she tries to catch her breath.
On the other end of the line, she hears the energetic voice of Ariadna, the editor she’s about to start working with at the local publishing house.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” she says in a professional tone.
“Not at all,” Rebeca replies, walking toward the store’s door while listening to her editor explain some details about the first draft of the translation she’ll be sending her soon.
She feels Martina’s gaze fixed on the back of her neck, hot and insistent.
Every step she takes seems to amplify that sensation, and when she steps out onto the street—after grabbing her bags from the locker—the cold air hits her face, carrying with it the faint scent of the sea.
“We can meet tomorrow at the office to discuss the manuscript,” Ariadna continues.
“Perfect. I’ll be there,” Rebeca replies, her voice trembling slightly at the end.
She starts walking without looking back.
Her heart is pounding, as if she’d run several blocks, and she doesn’t dare turn around.
Only then does Rebeca realize that ignoring Martina is going to be much harder than she’d imagined.
Because her body, treacherous, has already begun to remember everything her mind is struggling to forget again.