Chapter 13
The backyard of Martina’s parents’ house exudes that peculiar calm found only in family homes on spring afternoons.
The long, sturdy wooden table stands ready in the filtered shade of a grapevine that is timidly beginning to cover the pergola with tender, glossy leaves.
The air carries the damp scent of freshly cut grass, the earthy aroma of freshly turned flower beds, and, from the kitchen opening onto the patio, the comforting warmth of the stew bubbling on the stove.
Martina and Julia arrived an hour ago, after nearly three hours on the road from Santander.
The trip passed in tense silence, broken only by occasional comments about work and how unusual it is to go to a family meal in the middle of a Wednesday.
Now, settled in the house, the tension Martina has been carrying for days mingles with the sweet, somewhat melancholic familiarity of this place she has known since childhood.
Three days. Only three days have passed since that night. But to her, it feels like a horrifying eternity.
She remembers waking up among Rebeca’s rumpled sheets, her skin still tingling from the memory of Rebeca’s fingers tracing slow paths, of her lips that tasted of urgency, of the precise, almost painful way she said her name when desire broke down every barrier they tried to erect.
Martina can still feel the weight of that delicious body on top of hers, the hot breath against her neck as Rebeca whispered her name over and over.
But she also remembers how Rebeca left as soon as dawn broke.
And since then, three days have passed in which they’ve run into each other on the building’s landing and immediately turned away, because they’ve never been alone. Without a single chance to talk about what happened. And, to top it all off, Martina doesn’t even have Rebeca’s new number.
On more than one occasion, she’s climbed the stairs with her heart in her throat and pressed her finger to the doorbell on her floor—to no answer—but work has stood between them time and again.
As if fate had drawn a perfect circle to prevent them from talking about what they felt that night.
“Well, I don’t think you need to change a single photo,” Julia says as she places some of the plates on the linen tablecloth. “The photo essay seems perfect to me just as it is. It has… power. That photo at dawn, with the waves breaking, is stunning.”
Martina looks up from the napkins she’s also setting out.
“Right,” she replies in a distracted, almost absent tone. “But what you think isn’t what the magazine is going to decide. They want a different kind of drama.”
Julia lets out a brief sigh and places the last plate with a weary movement.
“I was just giving my opinion, Martina. You don’t need to turn this into an argument.”
Martina sets down the rest of the napkins and crosses her arms, a gesture she knows irritates Julia.
“I told you a long time ago: even though we work for the same company, I’d rather our projects didn’t overlap. I don’t want to mix things up and have people gossip.”
Julia looks up at the ceiling with that usual weariness she’s been showing around her lately.
“I’ll say it again, it was just a comment,” Julia defends herself. “You don’t have to take it as a personal attack every time I speak.”
Martina opens her mouth to reply, but Julia’s phone rings in her pocket. Julia’s expression changes in an instant.
“Didn’t you say you were going to take a couple of days off after the trip?” Martina asks.
Julia already has the phone pressed to her ear.
“Yeah, but this is important,” she mutters, and takes a few steps back toward the far end of the garden, turning her back on everyone.
Martina watches her go. She recognizes that quick, determined stride. Then she sees her gesturing with her free hand, even smiling, as if she were delighted by the interruption.
“That’s why this has stopped working,” Martina mutters to herself, her eyes fixed on her wife’s back.
“What has stopped working, honey?”
Her father’s deep, calm voice comes naturally from behind her, causing Martina to turn slowly.
Carlos Valcárcel appears with two small bottles of beer in each hand and hands one to his daughter with a calm smile on his lips.
“Here. It’s very cold, just the way you like it.”
Martina takes the bottle; the cold of the glass bites her skin and, for a second, reminds her of the touch of Rebeca’s fingers that night.
Carlos plops down in one of the wooden chairs and gestures toward the one next to him with his chin.
“Come on, sit down with me for a moment. Your mother won’t be ready with dinner for a while.” Martina obeys, and as she pops the cap, an invisible bird responds from high in the trees with a long, sweet trill. “Tell me what’s going on,” he asks bluntly, his eyes fixed on his daughter.
Martina takes a small sip, and the cold liquid slides down her throat. However, it doesn’t ease the knot that has been lodged in her chest for days.
“Did you know Rebeca was moving to Santander?” she asks, and her father notices a look of sadness on her face.
Carlos remains silent for a few seconds. He drinks slowly, letting the bitter taste of the beer linger on his tongue before answering.
“We’ve never lost touch with her family, sweetheart,” he replies shortly after. “Despite… everything that happened.”
Martina frowns.
“But I never imagined she’d end up living in the same building as you,” he adds with a half-smile. “Your mother found out from Marisol a couple of months ago that she was going to move there. We thought it was better not to say anything. We didn’t want to make a fuss.”
“So you knew.”
Carlos shrugs, a gesture that has always meant “that’s just the way things are.”
“Well, you could have told me,” she murmurs, with a hint of reproach she can’t hide. “It would have saved me the surprise. And the… confusion.”
“According to Julia, it was quite a pleasant surprise,” he replies, and there’s a curious gleam in his eyes. “She mentioned it to me earlier in the kitchen. She even said she’d seen you looking very… lively.”
Martina casts a fleeting glance toward the other end of the garden. Julia keeps talking, gesturing with her free hand, as if the world around her were of no concern to her.
“Yeah…” Martina replies with a touch of irony. “She sees everything in a positive light when it suits her.”
Carlos watches her in silence for a few seconds.
“Honey…” he murmurs, reaching out to brush her forearm. “What’s going on?”
Martina sighs, takes another sip, and her gaze drifts to the lawn surrounding them.
“Sometimes I think this marriage ended a long time ago,” she confesses in a low voice, almost surprised to hear herself say it.
“We got married because we fit into a puzzle that seemed incomplete. Because everyone expected it after the thing that… happened. Because we were… comfortable with each other. And because, deep down, neither of us wanted to be alone.”
She pauses. Martina feels her heart begin to pound against her ribs.
“And now…” Her voice breaks for a moment. “Now Rebeca is just a landing away. And every time I see her, I feel like I can’t breathe. Like I’m that woman again—the one she really saw. And it hurts so much.”
Carlos doesn’t interrupt his daughter. He just listens to her, his fingers drumming against the bottle.
“So what are you going to do?” Carlos asks.
“I don’t know,” Martina replies, and then swallows hard. “But I can’t keep pretending this marriage is working. Not when we seem to be miles apart even though we share a life together.”
Carlos reaches out and gently wraps his hand around hers. The rough warmth of his palm makes her smile for a few brief seconds.
“I’ve always told you to seek your own happiness, sweetheart,” her father murmurs. “And if you can’t find it with Julia anymore… you should have that conversation with her. Before the two of you hurt each other any further.”
Martina squeezes her father’s fingers for a moment before letting go, but she doesn’t answer him. She just stares off toward the horizon where the sun is beginning to cast a golden glow over the treetops.
Dinner arrives shortly after, and the rest of the guests gather around the table: her parents, Julia, her sister Laura with Andrés, and the little girls darting between the chairs like two whirlwinds of curls and laughter.
The stew her mother has prepared gives off a rich aroma of rosemary and garlic; the salad glows green and fresh; and the glasses are filled with local red wine.
“Martina, you have to show us that photo essay you’ve been talking so much about,” Laura insists as she serves some meat for Clara. “Andrés says the photos you’ve been sharing on Instagram are amazing.”
“I promise I’ll show it to you once it’s published,” Martina replies with a polite smile. “You know I don’t like to show my work when it’s still a work in progress.”
“I’m sure it’s beautiful,” her mother chimes in, her eyes shining with pride. “You’ve always had an eye for this. Just like when you were little and you used to photograph the flowers in the courtyard with that rickety camera your father gave you.”
Clara gently tugs at her aunt’s sleeve.
“Aunt Martina, can we play hide-and-seek later? Please! And I want you to teach me how to take photos like yours!”
Martina leans down and strokes her rosy cheek.
“Of course, sweetie. As soon as we’re done, I’ll lend you the camera and we’ll take a few.”
Andrés bursts out laughing from across the table.
“Don’t give her any ideas; she’ll have us all posing later.”
Laughter ripples around the table. But Martina notices how, on several occasions, her wife slips her hand under the tablecloth to check her phone. The gesture repeats itself over and over, until it makes her stomach churn.
When the plates are almost empty and her mother begins to clear the table with Laura’s help, Martina gets up and approaches Julia, who is standing by the hedge in the back, frowning at her phone.
“Can we talk for a moment?”
Julia looks up and blinks several times, as if returning from far away.
“Sure,” she replies, and slips her phone into the back pocket of her pants with a quick movement.
The two walk a few meters away, to the edge where the grapevine casts dancing shadows on the ground.
“Why have you been glued to your phone all day?” Martina asks. “These days were supposed to be about unplugging. About spending time with family.”
Julia exhales slowly and crosses her arms over her chest.
“I’ve told you before… not all of us can afford to disappear for a couple of days. There are things that deserve our attention.”
“Things?” Martina repeats. “Or people?”
Julia looks at her in silence for a few seconds. There’s something new in her eyes, a shadow Martina hadn’t seen before.
“Don’t be silly, please. What’s that supposed to mean now?” Julia asks her.
“It’s been going on for weeks now. Late-night calls, texts you reply to when you think I won’t notice, excuses that sound more and more like excuses.”
Martina doesn’t even know how she can be holding that against her after what she herself has done.
Her wife runs a hand through her hair, a nervous gesture Martina has rarely seen her make.
“It’s not what you think,” she replies. “It’s someone important who’s going to have a big impact on my next interview.”
Martina watches her in silence, and the air between them crackles.
“Well, you weren’t so concerned about these things before.”
Julia shrugs, a small, almost defeated gesture.
“Things change, Martina. We both have.”
“Of course.”
At that moment, a high-pitched voice cuts through the air.
“Aunt Martinaaaa!”
Clara comes running, her braids bouncing on her back, her eyes wide with excitement.
“You have to come see the nest we found! It’s in the big willow tree! There are tons of eggs!”
The girl grabs her hand with both of hers and pulls hard.
Martina holds Julia’s gaze for one more second. She sees the weariness and the distance in them. She also sees a flash of guilt that pierces her chest like a knife.
Then she exhales with a slight pause.
“I’ll be right there.”
She lets the little girl lead her, and as they walk toward the willow tree, with Clara chattering nonstop at her side—“They’re so tiny!
They look like drops of sky!”—a cold, clear certainty settles in her chest: her marriage to Julia is more than over.
And Martina no longer wants to make the effort to fix it.
Because on the other side of the landing, a few steps away and an eternity’s distance, Rebeca breathes the same air as she does. And every time she remembers it, her body burns in a way she doesn’t know how to extinguish.