Chapter 6
The last thing Rebeca Noriega expected was to be having a glass of wine at her neighbor’s house, especially considering that one of them is her ex and the other was, for years, a friend to both of them.
The scene has a strangely unreal quality.
Rebeca is sitting on the living room sofa with a glass of white wine in her hands, trying to feign a calm that is far removed from what is going on inside her.
Martina and Julia’s apartment is bright and cozy, with simple decor that combines light-toned wood, broad-leafed plants, and a few framed black-and-white photographs that likely belong to Martina’s work.
The warm light from a floor lamp softens the shadows in the room, and from the kitchen comes the constant sound of utensils clinking and the delicious aroma of lasagna baking in the oven.
The scent of sun-dried tomatoes, fresh basil, and melted cheese slowly spreads through the living room and awakens an unexpected pang of hunger in Rebeca.
After a long and mentally exhausting day, her stomach seems to react to the aroma of the food with a sincerity her mind would prefer to ignore.
Julia is sitting across from her, settled into an armchair, her legs crossed and a glass of wine in her hand.
Her demeanor is relaxed, almost cheerful, as if there were nothing out of the ordinary about the situation.
She’s wearing a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and small silver earrings that glint every time she moves her head.
Rebeca, on the other hand, feels like every muscle in her body is too tense, and she has no idea how to relax.
Before leaving the house, she hesitated for several minutes in front of the bedroom mirror, wondering what to wear.
In the end, she opted for something simple, deliberately understated: dark jeans that fit snugly around her hips, a cream-colored cotton blouse with the top button undone, and a light gray jacket that she took off upon entering.
Her makeup is minimal—just a touch of foundation, mascara, and a soft gloss on her lips.
Nothing that suggests excessive effort. Nothing that could be interpreted as special preparation for “the most important moment of your life,” according to Bruno.
She has tried to convince herself that it’s just a dinner among neighbors.
And yet, as she holds her glass of wine and listens to the sounds of Martina moving about in the kitchen, she knows that the word “neighbors” is ridiculously inadequate to describe the history that binds them.
On the low table in front of the sofa is a small tray with some appetizers that Rebeca has brought along.
She bought them at the neighborhood supermarket, driven by the need not to arrive empty-handed.
Among them is a box of sobaos pasiegos, a package of Cantabrian quesada in individual portions, and a small selection of Cantabrian anchovies in olive oil that the clerk assured her were among the best in the area.
“This is perfect,” Julia had said as she opened the box of sobaos and inhaled the aroma. “We always end our dinners with something sweet. Do you remember those nights when we’d order ice cream delivery at three in the morning?”
Rebeca smiled out of habit.
“Yeah. We were pretty crazy.”
Now the conversation was proceeding with a caution that hadn’t gone unnoticed by her.
“So you’re working at a small publishing house in the city,” Julia asks after taking a sip of her wine.
Rebeca nods.
“Yes. Actually, it’s affiliated with an international publishing house that offered me a good contract a few months ago.”
As she answers, she runs her thumb along the stem of her glass in an almost unconscious gesture.
“They publish in several countries and handle various translation projects. They offered me the chance to work remotely from here, so… I didn’t think twice.”
Julia smiles with interest.
“That sounds pretty good. And what’s your day-to-day like?” she asks. “Do you work more closely with the authors or the editors?”
“A little of both,” Rebeca explains. “I also review the final versions of other translations. Let’s just say it’s a team effort. Sometimes I speak directly with the author if the text is very personal,” she adds before taking a sip of wine. “It’s… intense. But I like it.”
“You’ve always been good with words. I remember when you used to proofread my articles. You were ruthless, but very fair, I have to admit.”
Rebeca feels a slight warmth on her cheeks.
“I just wanted them to be perfect.”
“Well, you succeeded,” Julia praises, raising her glass in a toast. “You always did.”
The comment hangs in the air for a second, laden with those shared memories that neither of them has managed to forget. Rebeca looks down at the wine. The liquid reflects the light from the lamp in tiny golden sparkles.
“And from what I can see, you’re still in cultural journalism,” Rebeca notes, changing the subject.
“Yes,” Julia nods. “I work at a company that collaborates with the newsroom where Martina is. We do reports, interviews, features… In fact, that’s how we reconnected, after she came back from Milan.”
The comment stirs something inside Rebeca. For a moment, she wonders how many other parts of Martina’s life have unfolded in her absence. How many chapters of her story have taken place far beyond anything she could have known.
“You wanted it that way.”
“I see,” says Rebeca. “How nice. She must have really liked working there.”
Julia shrugs.
“It was a difficult time for her. But yes, it did her good. It changed a lot of things.”
Rebeca doesn’t ask what things. She isn’t sure she wants to know, because she knows where this is going.
Just then, Martina walks into the living room.
The movement is so quiet that it takes Rebeca a second to realize she’s no longer alone with Julia.
Martina is wearing a simple black T-shirt that hugs her torso and dark pants rolled up to her ankles.
Her hair is casually pulled back, with a few dark strands falling loosely against the nape of her neck, and she holds a dish towel in one hand after setting the salad on the table.
The scent of spices and melted cheese clings to her like a second skin.
She approaches the armchair next to the sofa and sits down with a naturalness that seems carefully controlled for a moment like the one the three of them are experiencing.
“As Julia told you, yes… it was a great opportunity,” she replies to the previous comment.
Her eyes drift toward Rebeca for just an instant. A fleeting moment, but enough for Rebeca to feel a chill run down her spine.
“Your mother also told me that you’ve been working in various places,” Martina remarks, and Rebeca nearly chokes on her drink.
The mention of her mother takes her slightly by surprise. She didn’t know they were still in touch.
She takes another sip of wine to buy some time.
“Yes,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve had some interesting opportunities. I can’t complain.”
The phrase is deliberately neutral. It makes Martina nod cautiously.
“I’m glad. You’ve always been very good at what you do.”
The compliment sounds sincere, but it also hurts.
Rebeca feels Martina’s gaze on her even when she isn’t looking directly at her.
There’s something about that attention that makes her uncomfortably aware of every little gesture: the way she holds her glass, the movement of her breath, the posture of her shoulders trying to look relaxed, but which aren’t at all.
Suddenly, the oven timer goes off, signaling that the lasagna is ready.
“I’ll get it,” Julia says, standing up.
She heads to the kitchen with quick steps and disappears behind the door.
“You’ll see how much you love it!” she calls from there. “It’s my mother’s recipe. With extra béchamel, just the way you liked it.”
Rebeca takes advantage of the distraction to pour herself a little more wine. The liquid slides down her throat with a smoothness she appreciates. When she looks up again, she finds Martina staring at her.
Not casually.
She’s observing her with an almost absorbing intensity. Her blue eyes slowly trace her face, as if, in that moment, Martina’s sole intention were to memorize the curve of her mouth, the strand of hair that has slipped onto her forehead, the faint blush that colors her cheeks.
The sensation is so obvious that it’s impossible to pretend it doesn’t exist.
Rebeca feels her pulse quicken slightly. Martina’s gaze has always had that power—to make the world shrink to the distance between their bodies, to the heat generated in the space that separates them.
“I’m sorry this is so uncomfortable for you,” Martina says after a moment. Her voice is low, barely a whisper that doesn’t reach the kitchen.
The words hang suspended in the space between them.
It takes Rebeca a few seconds to respond. Bruno’s voice pops into her mind, reminding her of the phone conversation she had with him as soon as she got home.
“You have to let things flow. Otherwise, you won’t be able to take a step without your head exploding.”
“Actually,” she says. And this time she does so with a calm smile on her lips, “I think it might even do us some good.”
Martina frowns slightly.
“Really?”
Rebeca holds her gaze.
“We’re not going to stop being neighbors, are we? Sooner or later we’ll have to learn to live closer together. Better to do it over a glass of wine and some lasagna than with awkward silences every time we see each other.”
The statement has a simple logic. Practical. But deep down, it also contains a kind of acceptance. A truce that manages to surprise Martina for a second.
Then something in her expression changes.
A genuine smile appears on her lips. It’s not the polite smile she’s maintained since Rebeca arrived.
It’s something else. Warmer and more sincere.
And, for a moment, Rebeca sees in her the Martina from more than six years ago: the one who kissed her neck in the dark, the one who whispered promises against her skin.
“No,” she admits, and the smile remains on her lips. “I suppose not.”
For a moment, time seems to stand still.
Their gazes meet with an intensity neither of them tries to hide.
That old desire that lingers within them stirs in Rebeca’s gut like a treacherous heartbeat.
She feels the heat rising up her neck, her pulse racing in her wrists.
Martina tilts her head slightly, and that gesture—so familiar—makes Rebeca clench her fingers around the glass to keep from trembling.
Then Julia’s voice comes from the kitchen.
“Girls, dinner’s ready!”