Chapter 10
“Who could it be?”
What at first seemed like a passing shower has now turned into a veritable deluge, with gusts of wind shaking the trees on the street and making the window frames rattle slightly.
The sky has darkened until it’s almost night, and every clap of thunder rumbles with a violence that seems to want to burst into the apartment.
Rebeca wipes her lips with a napkin, leaves the half-eaten slice of pizza on the plate, and gets up from the sofa. The doorbell rings again, this time more insistently, as if whoever is on the other side knows she’s heard it.
She walks toward the door with a sense of unease.
She isn’t expecting anyone, and at this time of the afternoon, it also seems unlikely that a neighbor would decide to drop by unannounced.
The storm roars on the other side of the door like an impatient animal, so without giving it much thought, she turns the knob and opens the door.
The sight that greets her on the other side leaves her completely frozen.
Martina is standing in front of her, completely soaked.
Water is running down her dark hair, clinging to her temples and neck, and the jacket she’s wearing seems to weigh twice as much from the accumulated rain.
Her eyelashes are damp, and drops continue to slide down her jaw as she breathes with a certain agitation, as if she’d just run the last few meters.
The cold has reddened her cheeks and lips, and she’s hugging herself to stop from shivering.
For a moment that feels far too long, neither of them can speak, until Martina breaks the silence.
“I left my keys behind,” Martina says, stumbling a bit over her words. “And Julia isn’t home. I didn’t know what to do with all this rain.”
Rebeca keeps staring at her without reacting. She watches as water drips from the hem of her clothes onto the landing, forming small puddles on the tiles. Martina’s hair has clung to her neck in an almost hypnotic way, tracing the delicate curve of her skin.
The scene is so unexpected that it takes her mind a few seconds to kick into gear, just as she sees a small puddle beginning to form around Martina’s feet. And that small detail is what finally snaps her out of her reverie.
“Come in, come in,” Rebeca says, stepping quickly away from the door. “You’re going to soak the whole landing.”
Martina enters somewhat awkwardly, closing the door behind her as she shakes her jacket lightly, water splashing onto the entryway floor.
“I’ll get you a towel,” Rebeca adds almost immediately.
And she disappears down the hallway before Martina can reply.
Her heart is beating too fast as she crosses the bedroom.
She opens the closet, moving several hangers aside until she finds a large towel.
Her hands move with a certain urgency, but her mind keeps replaying in slow motion what she has seen before her.
She remains transfixed by the image of Martina, soaked to the bone.
By the way her eyes sought hers with relief.
By the absurd intensity she felt when she saw her appear so unexpectedly.
When she returns to the living room, Martina is still exactly where she left her.
Between the entryway and the living room, as if she hadn’t wanted to go any further without permission.
The warm light from the living room illuminates the scene in an almost intimate way.
The floor of the entryway already shows several wet spots where Martina has let the water drip from her clothes.
Rebeca approaches and hands her the towel.
“Thank you…” Martina says with a sigh.
She begins to dry her hair with slow movements, running the towel over her head while tilting her face slightly forward. Water drips from the ends and slides down her neck, tracing shiny trails across her skin.
At that moment, a clap of thunder shakes the sky with sudden violence, and the two look up at the same time.
“Oh my God…” murmurs Rebeca, looking toward the living room window.
“The Great Flood.” The rain pounds against the glass with almost savage intensity.
“And to think that when I checked the news before moving, they said it was going to be a warmer-than-usual spring,” she adds, trying to break the tension of the moment.
Martina lets out a small laugh, the towel still draped over her shoulders.
The two watch the storm for a few seconds.
“And I don’t have an umbrella,” Martina adds shortly after. “I have my best friend, but she doesn’t live very close by and…”
“Don’t worry,” Rebeca interrupts her casually, as if she were starting to enjoy this little twist of fate. “Will Julia be long?”
Martina nods.
“She’s in Madrid. When I told her I’d left my keys behind, she told me to try calling you. And honestly, like I said, I didn’t know what to do.” Martina sighs before continuing. “I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you on a Sunday afternoon.”
Rebeca quickly shakes her head.
“It’s no bother at all, I promise.”
The look of regret on Martina’s face is so sincere that Rebeca finds it impossible not to smile. In fact, she ends up letting out a little laugh.
“What you should do is change,” she says, gesturing toward the soaked clothes. “Because from what I can see…”
Rebeca’s eyes briefly—and very slowly—trace Martina’s figure: the T-shirt clinging to her torso, the dark pants hugging her legs, the way the cold makes the skin on her arms stand on end.
“I think we’re still the same size,” she concludes, barely realizing when she clears her throat.
Martina raises an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips.
“That would be great,” she says.
“The bathroom is at the end on the left,” Rebeca adds, pointing down the hallway. “I’ll bring you something to wear.”
Martina nods.
Rebeca walks toward her bedroom, trying to make her footsteps sound as quiet as possible.
But as soon as she closes the door, she leans against it.
She takes a deep breath. Her heart is pounding in her chest with absurd intensity.
She places a hand on her sternum, as if trying to calm that frantic rhythm.
“Come on…” she murmurs to herself. “Nothing’s wrong.”
But there is. Martina is in her house. In her bathroom. Soaked by the rain. And, against all logic, that simple fact has completely disrupted her peace of mind this afternoon. Today. Her whole life.
She opens the closet again. The clothes are still partially out of place after the move, so it takes her a few seconds to find something that might work.
Finally, she pulls out one of the loose-fitting tracksuits she wears around the house: gray pants and a black hooded sweatshirt. Simple, comfortable, and neutral.
When she reaches the bathroom, she knocks on the door.
“Yes?”
Rebeca opens the door a crack and watches Martina, standing in front of the mirror, a wet T-shirt in one hand and her still-damp hair falling over her shoulders.
She’s wearing a pink lace bra that contrasts with her skin, slightly reddened by the cold.
Her bare back reveals the delicate line of her spine, her shoulder blades outlined by the slight tremor of her body.
And meanwhile, her face is reflected in the mirror, with rosy cheeks, parted lips, and those electric blue eyes that meet Rebeca’s in the glass.
Rebeca clears her throat again, almost involuntarily.
“Here…” she says, holding out the clothes to her. “It’s not one of those shirts you like, but it’ll warm you up.”
Martina accepts the tracksuit with a smile.
“Thanks.”
Rebeca doesn’t leave right away. For a moment, she stands watching her reflection in the mirror—the image of Martina, leaning slightly toward the sink as she gathers her hair with her fingers.
“By the way, I bought some pizza,” Rebeca says. “Should I heat it up a bit and have you join me?”
Martina looks up, and the unease in her expression dissolves almost instantly.
“I’d love to.”
Five minutes later, the atmosphere in the living room has completely changed.
Martina appears wearing her tracksuit, her hair already brushed, falling in soft strands over her shoulders.
The clothes are slightly too big for her, but that only makes her figure look even more beautiful and natural.
The sleeves partially cover her hands, and the pants drag a little on the floor.
Rebeca has placed two plates on the coffee table. A blanket lies on the sofa, and the aroma of hot pizza fills the room once more.
Martina watches the scene with a broad smile.
“Were you planning on eating two?”
Rebeca looks up from the kitchen with a raised eyebrow.
“I was going to save one for tomorrow, don’t worry.”
Martina sinks onto the sofa as she takes a slice.
“Yeah, right.” She chews the first piece slowly before adding with a crooked smile, “Just like you used to do at home. You always asked for extra, just in case.”
The words come out with unexpected ease, and Rebeca’s heart skips a beat.
For a moment, she isn’t quite sure what to say.
But finally she smiles.
“I guess some habits never die.”
Martina raises her soda can.
“Here’s to that.”
The two clink their cans as the rain continues to fall heavily on the other side of the window.
The conversation begins to flow little by little. First with comments about how Rebeca’s move went, about the small details of the building.
“Have you noticed that the neighbor on the fourth floor always comes down at eight o’clock sharp with his dog? He’s the neighborhood alarm clock, like clockwork,” Martina says, nodding toward the window.
Rebeca laughs.
“Yeah. And he barks exactly three times before he goes out. I think he’s trained him.”
Martina nods, amused.
“He’s methodical. I like that.”
And little by little, the memories come flooding back.
“Do you remember the storm in Galicia?” Martina asks suddenly. Rebeca pauses for a second. “The one that forced us to take shelter in that tiny bookstore. Where we found one of your first translated books.”
“Of course I remember.”
“They had such beautiful covers,” Martina recalls, holding another slice of pizza. “And they smelled like old paper. That always drove you crazy.”
Rebeca laughs too.
“It still happens to me.”
Martina covers her mouth with her hand, smiling as she eats with sparkling eyes, and Rebeca feels the heat rising up her neck.
Martina realizes where the conversation has turned.
“Sorry,” Martina murmurs. “I shouldn’t…”
“No,” Rebeca interrupts her. “It’s okay.”
They look at each other for a moment. And Rebeca doesn’t know if it’s because of the rain, or because of the way Martina tucks several strands of hair behind her ear, but she lets a confession slip out:
“You know? Sometimes I think I never stopped missing you.”
Martina swallows, remains silent for a few seconds, and looks away.
“Me too.”
Rebeca leans toward her slightly. And Martina stares at her. Her eyes trace Rebeca’s face with deliberate slowness: her lips, her cheeks, her eyes… They hear another clap of thunder, and she snaps back to reality.
“Do you feel like grabbing a few beers?”