Chapter 19
“I’ll hang up now, Cora. Let me know when you have any news.”
Martina utters the last words with a hint of weariness in her voice. She hangs up, and the silence that fills the kitchen seems to bring back everything she’s been through over the last few days.
She sets the phone down on the counter and stands still for a second, her palms flat against the granite.
The afternoon light streams in through the window, filtering through as a golden strip that crosses the room and settles on the furniture, illuminating the grain as if they were old scars.
Outside, distant sounds from the street can be heard, and the noise adds to the one already in her head.
Martina refocuses on what’s in front of her.
In the skillet, the sautéed vegetables give off a gentle aroma that fills the kitchen: thinly sliced zucchini, red and green peppers releasing their sweetness as they brown, sliced mushrooms soaking up the garlic and olive oil she’s cooking with.
Next to them, the grilled chicken breasts are finishing up.
It’s not an elaborate recipe, but she likes the feeling of cooking after a long day.
Something that reminds her that, despite everything, she’s still capable of taking care of herself, even though lately that idea seems increasingly distant.
After the quick trip to Madrid, coming home should have been a kind of respite.
However, ever since she crossed the line with Rebeca, everything seems to have shifted slightly out of place.
Nothing fits inside her body. Everyday objects—the mug she always uses in the mornings, the sagging cushion on the sofa, the key turning in the lock—have taken on a strange quality, as if they belonged to another life that no longer belongs to her.
As if someone had moved the furniture while she was away and now she has to learn all over again where everything is.
These past few days she has tried to get back into her routine.
She has worked on the article late into the night, searching for the exact photo that captures others’ pain without seeming contrived.
She has tried to convince herself that what happened on the beach won’t cause her any trouble.
But the body isn’t so easily fooled. And certainly not the heart.
Rebeca and she have run into each other a couple of times in the building’s entrance hall since that night, with a tension growing between them every time they meet—a tension Martina begins to feel even before she opens the building’s door.
It’s a constant pressure, an electric current that runs through the air whenever they’re near each other.
And at night, when Julia is already asleep beside her, Martina lies staring at the ceiling and relives every second of what she experienced with her; the salty taste of Rebeca’s mouth, the muffled moan against her neck, the way her nails dug into her body as if she were afraid she would vanish.
She sighs as she flips the chicken breasts in the pan, the sizzling of the oil distracting her for a moment and giving her a breather.
Just then, she hears footsteps approaching down the hall.
“What did Cora tell you?” Julia asks as she appears in the kitchen. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail with a few dark strands escaping, and she’s wearing a light-colored shirt rolled up to her elbows. She leans slightly over the counter and takes an olive from the small bowl next to the sink.
Martina looks away from the frying pan for just a second.
“That they’ll probably accept the proposed changes,” she replies, turning slightly toward her. “It’s going to be a great feature. I think they’re going to really like it. They were very pleased with the proposed structure and the photos we chose.”
Julia chews the olive with a calm smile that lights up her eyes.
“I never doubted that,” Julia says confidently. “You’ve always known how to tell stories through images.”
For a second, Martina feels a strange twinge in her chest upon hearing that confidence.
Julia has always believed in her work. She’s always been there to celebrate it, to remind her that it’s worth it when she herself doubted.
And now that loyalty weighs on her like a debt she doesn’t know how to repay.
As if every compliment were a reminder of everything she’s about to break.
“By the way,” Julia adds as she leans against the counter, “have you thought about what you want to do for your birthday?”
The question catches her off guard. Martina looks up suddenly.
Julia watches her with a broad smile, the kind that completely lights up her face and that for years has seemed to her like the best refuge in the world.
Martina shrugs slightly.
“Something simple,” she murmurs. “Maybe here at home. I don’t really feel like big parties.”
She looks down at the pan as she stirs the vegetables, and the steam rises to her face, hot and humid.
Julia nods enthusiastically.
“Great,” she exclaims, and gives the countertop a gentle pat. “Well, something at home. We can make that lasagna you like, and prepare a few dishes for the girls… something quiet, intimate. Like before.”
Her expression lights up with a sudden idea.
“We could invite Rebeca, too,” Julia suggests.
A knot forms instantly in Martina’s chest. For a second, she feels like she can’t breathe. She keeps her eyes fixed on the pan as she tries to control the reaction threatening to show on her face.
“Sure,” she manages to say. She clears her throat, pretending it’s because of the steam. “That would be great. I’m sure she’d love to.”
She grabs a dish towel and wipes her hands with a deliberately calm gesture, even though her heart is pounding.
Julia doesn’t seem to notice anything strange. She leans a little closer to her and lowers her voice as if sharing a secret.
“Yeah, I think she could use a little break. I’m sure she’s working like crazy,” Julia says, as if she’s just imagining it. “And besides, it would be nice. The three of us celebrating your birthday together. Just like the old days, right?”
The joke falls flat, but it cuts through Martina like a knife.
“The old days.” The nights when the three of them would go out to bars downtown, laugh until their stomachs hurt, and shout secrets to each other over the music.
The old days when Rebeca and she loved each other without reservation.
The old days that ended in tears and a final goodbye.
Martina swallows hard.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “Just like in the old days.”
Julia moves a little closer. She leans toward Martina and gives her a soft kiss on the cheek. The gesture is quick, everyday, familiar. Then she heads toward the table to start setting the plates.
Martina stands still for a few seconds. She watches her as she moves through the kitchen with familiarity.
Julia opens a drawer, takes out the cutlery, sets the glasses…
She does it with an almost mechanical calm, as if that domestic ritual were etched into her memory after so many years of sharing the same home.
And as she watches her, Martina’s thoughts begin to drift toward an uncomfortable place.
Toward that conversation she’s been putting off for days.
She knows she should have it. She’s known it for a long time.
But every time the moment approaches, something seems to get in the way: a phone call, a meeting, some excuse or another.
Perhaps, deep down, there’s also something else.
A visceral fear. Because facing that conversation means acknowledging that she has failed at love once again.
But the problem is that the spark between them is gone.
She watches her as Julia places the napkins with a distracted air. For years, she believed that change was natural. That all relationships evolve. That love can also become a different kind of companionship. She accepted it as part of the passage of time. As if desire had an expiration date.
But since Rebeca has reappeared in her life, that explanation has begun to falter.
Because what she has felt these past few days is different.
More intense. More alive. The touch of her fingers on the beach, the salty taste of her skin on her tongue, the way her breath caught when Martina brushed her lips against the nape of her neck, the moan that escaped her throat when their bodies met again.
All of that has awakened something she thought was long gone.
And when she compares it to what she feels now, the difference is impossible to ignore.
She’s surprised to find herself thinking about it with a clarity that stings her with guilt.
Because Julia doesn’t deserve that. She doesn’t deserve to be compared.
Or measured against anyone. She doesn’t deserve for Martina to look at her while she’s setting the table and think of another woman who makes her tremble just by looking at her.
Martina takes a slow breath, trying to calm the pulse throbbing in her temples.
She knows she shouldn’t drag this out any longer.
She knows the right thing to do is to speak up.
To tell the truth. Even if that truth changes everything.
Even if it means breaking something that has long been her home.
Even if it means losing the security of Julia’s arms for the uncertainty of lips she once left behind.
She turns off the stove for good and divides the food between two plates. And when Julia comes back into the kitchen to grab the water pitcher, Martina looks up.
“Julia.”
She stops with the pitcher in her hand.
“Yes?”
Martina feels the tension settle in her chest.
“I think we need to talk about something.”
Martina opens her mouth to continue, but before she can get a word out, Julia’s phone starts ringing on the counter, and the sound shatters the moment like glass.
They both look at the screen at the same time.
“I have to take this call, sorry,” she says as she picks up the phone. “I won’t be long, I promise. Are you serving the food?”
Martina keeps a calm expression, though inside she’s in turmoil.
“Sure.”
Julia is already walking toward the living room as she answers.
“Yes, go ahead.”
Silence fills the kitchen once more. Martina presses her lips together tightly. For a second, she stands completely still, the plate still in her hand, and the steam from the food rises in thin wisps that dissipate into the air.
She knows that sooner or later they’ll have to face it.
Because things have already started to take a different turn.
And when they do…
Nothing will ever be the same again.