Chapter 11
The sound of glass clinking sets the rhythm of the afternoon as it begins to turn into night.
The six beers they’ve shared between the two of them haven’t been enough to get them drunk, but they’ve been enough to ease that invisible tension that’s been with them since the moment Martina walked through the door of Rebeca’s apartment, soaked by the rain.
Now the atmosphere in the living room seems different: warmer, more intimate, almost suspended in a kind of truce between the past and the present.
The storm has gradually lost its strength.
You can still hear the rain falling, but it no longer beats down with the same violence as before.
Through the large window, the sky appears a lighter gray, as if the clouds were slowly beginning to dissipate after the battle they waged throughout the afternoon.
The light outside has become soft and diffuse, typical of those moments when the day refuses to fade away.
Martina Valcárcel leans back slightly against the sofa’s backrest, the small bottle between her fingers.
Rebeca’s black sweatshirt is too big for her, and the long sleeves partially cover her hands every time she lifts the bottle to drink.
That detail—so ordinary and yet so intimate—gives her a strange sensation she can’t quite put her finger on.
It’s as if time had gone back several years and, at the same time, as if every gesture were a completely new experience.
The fabric smells faintly of fabric softener and of her, of Rebeca, and Martina has to force herself not to close her eyes and breathe it in more deeply.
“As you can see, the years go by and I’m still a mess,” says Martina with a wry smile, setting the small bottle down on the coffee table. “Although at work, I promise you I’m much more organized.”
Rebeca watches her from the other end of the sofa with a slight look of disbelief. She doesn’t buy it for a second.
“I still remember how you used to leave everything scattered all over the house,” she replies, resting her elbow on the back of the sofa as she tilts her head slightly. “And the number of times you lost my manuscripts.”
Martina widens her eyes, feigning exaggerated indignation. She even puts her hand to her chest.
“That’s not true!”
The protest comes out almost automatically, accompanied by a laugh that escapes her before she can keep up the act.
“It’s just that you didn’t leave them where they usually were,” she adds, trying to defend herself. “You moved things around without warning. And I had my system.”
Rebeca shakes her head slowly, as if she’s been used to that kind of excuse for a long time.
“Sure. It was always my fault.”
She lifts the bottle and holds it in the air, inviting her to a toast.
“To our work,” says Rebeca. “And to the fact that we’re so much more professional than we were back then.”
Martina raises her beer to clink bottles with hers.
“That’s for sure.”
The two drink without taking their eyes off each other.
During that brief moment, Martina feels something run through her body.
It’s not just the effect of the alcohol.
It’s a sensation she recognizes all too well: the tingling at the nape of her neck, the heat spreading through her limbs, the way her skin prickles when Rebeca looks at her like that, without blinking.
Every time a flash of lightning lit up the sky during the storm, her gaze had ended up resting in the same place: on Rebeca’s neck, on the line of her jaw, on the way the white light traced the skin of her face for a fraction of a second.
And now, in the warm twilight of the living room, that image remains in her memory with unsettling clarity.
Rebeca sets the bottle down on the table and leans forward slightly.
“In the end,” she says, returning to the conversation, “you’re going to make me believe that you’re organized.”
Martina puts a hand to her chest with a theatrical gesture.
“I swear. I have planners and everything, reminders on my phone, even to-do lists.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true,” Martina insists, laughing. “People change.”
Rebeca raises an eyebrow.
“In some ways, yes.”
Their eyes meet again.
Rebeca feels her pulse racing in her temples; Martina notices how the air between them begins to take shape, as if every shared breath carried an invisible weight.
Then Martina’s phone vibrates on the table.
The sound bursts the bubble with unexpected abruptness, and Martina looks down at the screen to see Julia’s name—her true reality—lighting up the phone.
The expression that crosses her face is almost imperceptible, but enough to make something inside her tense up. A cold knot settles in her stomach.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, getting up from the sofa.
Rebeca nods casually, though her eyes remain fixed on her.
Martina picks up the phone and walks toward the living room window as she answers.
“Hello. Yes, I’m fine,” Martina says, instinctively lowering her voice. “No, don’t worry. I listened to you, and now I’m at Rebeca’s house.”
Martina pauses as she listens.
Rebeca tries to focus on the small bottle spinning slowly between her fingers, but she can’t help picking up on the tone of the conversation a few feet away.
“What?” Martina asks then. And the change in her expression is immediate.
“One more day?” She rests a hand against the windowpane as she listens to Julia’s explanation on the other end of the line.
“I understand. Don’t worry. Tomorrow morning I’ll let the doorman know to open the door to my apartment. See you later.”
When she hangs up, she stands motionless in front of the window for a moment. The sky is beginning to clear. Among the clouds, a few patches of blue are still visible where the evening light filters through timidly. But Martina isn’t really looking at the scenery.
She takes a deep breath before turning back toward the sofa.
When she sits down across from Rebeca, her expression has changed, and Rebeca immediately notices a shadow in her eyes that wasn’t there before.
“Julia has to extend her business trip by one more day,” she tells her. The tone with which she speaks is calm, but beneath that calm lies a weariness accumulated from many repeated instances. “The usual.”
Rebeca watches her in silence.
“But don’t worry, tomorrow when the doorman comes back, I’ll be able to let him know I left my keys here, and I won’t bother you anymore.”
“You know it’s not a bother; I’ve already told you that,” Rebeca reminds her.
The comment sounds simple, but Martina senses something more behind those words. A kind of distance, as if both of them were aware that the moment they’d shared that afternoon was beginning to fade.
Rebeca gets up from the sofa.
“I haven’t finished setting up the guest room yet,” she says as she heads toward the hallway. “But you can stay on the couch tonight.”
Martina looks up at her.
“Sure. Thank you so much.”
The words come out sincerely, though inside her something stirs with unexpected intensity as Rebeca nods at her.
“I’ll go get some blankets and be right back.”
She disappears down the hallway, and the living room falls silent.
Martina remains seated for a few seconds, listening to the distant sound of drawers opening in another room. She stands up and begins to pace the living room as if she were a caged lion.
She observes the details of the apartment with newfound attention: the books arranged on the bookshelf with that meticulous order that has always characterized Rebeca, the picture she’s hung on the wall—two pages from her first translated novel; she’d recognize it even a hundred years from now—the forgotten cup on the side table with the rim stained with coffee.
She brings a hand to her head as she walks and observes her surroundings, with countless memories and details flooding her heart.
She shakes her head.
“No…” she murmurs to herself.
But the more she tries to push the thought away, the more obvious it becomes, and when Rebeca returns with the blankets in her arms, Martina turns toward her.
Her eyes scan her from head to toe.
“Here’s everything,” she says.
Martina stares at her, and in that instant a chill runs down her spine.
*
Martina takes a step forward without a second thought. The chill running down her spine turns into an impulse she can’t and doesn’t want to control. Her hands rise, cup Rebeca’s face, and, without a word, she presses her lips against Rebeca’s.
The kiss is rough, desperate, as if the six years of silence had all built up into that single second.
Martina’s lips press against Rebeca’s with an urgency that borders on violence.
It tastes of beer and storm, of everything they never managed to say to each other before ending it all.
Rebeca tenses instantly. Her hands move to Martina’s chest, pushing her away forcefully.
“No…” she murmurs against her mouth. “Martina, we can’t…”
But the “no” dissolves the moment Martina deepens the kiss.
Her tongue pushes its way between Rebeca’s lips with a determination that brooks no refusal.
Rebeca tries to turn her face away, but Martina’s hands hold her firmly.
Rebeca’s body trembles, and the push turns into a grip.
Her fingers dig into the black sweatshirt she herself lent her, and instead of pushing her away, she pulls Martina toward her.
The kiss explodes. With a hunger that springs from the depths of her heart.
Martina moans against her mouth as she feels Rebeca surrender.
Their tongues entwine with a passion that has been dormant for years.
Rebeca’s hands slide up Martina’s back, digging into her shoulder blades, pulling her closer until their bodies are pressed completely together.
The heat radiating from Rebeca beneath her clothes is scorching.
Martina feels her breasts press against Rebeca’s, her already hard nipples brushing against each other through the thin fabric.