Chapter Text
The mornings at the De la Reina estate always began the same: the low hum of cicadas stirring in the sun-warmed grass, the smell of lavender and soap drifting faintly from the factory down the hill, and the mechanical thrum of delivery trucks waking up the warehouse yard.
Fina Valero wiped her hands on her apron and bent back over the crate of newly arrived perfumes, the labels still damp from printing. She sorted them by scent, careful not to let the glass bottles clink too hard against each other. Rosa Silvestre, Luz del Alba, Flor de Lirio. She took her time. The warehouse was cool this early in the day, its stone walls still holding onto the night.
Carmen sat on an upturned box beside her, legs swinging, halfway through a small peach and deep in her usual morning monologue.
“He’s going to ask me, I just know it,” she said, grinning with peach juice on her fingertips. “Tassio’s not as dumb as he looks. Well... maybe he is, but he knows how to read signs. And I’ve been giving him all the signs.”
Fina nodded, eyes still on the bottles. She picked up another and slid it gently into the right slot. “Hmm.”
“You’re not listening,” Carmen said, nudging her with her foot.
“I am. You said Tassio’s going to ask you to be his girlfriend.”
“And?”
“And I said ‘hmm,’ which is enthusiastic for this hour,” Fina said with a soft smile, eyes still on her task.
Carmen rolled her eyes but laughed. “You’re just jealous.”
Fina arched a brow but said nothing.
Because the truth was, she didn’t dislike Tassio. Not exactly. She just didn't see what Carmen saw in him. All bark, very little follow-through. He made Carmen laugh, though, and sometimes that was enough. Fina knew better than to speak badly of someone who made your best friend happy… most of the time.
She was about to say something vaguely supportive when the warehouse door creaked open, and Carmen’s eyes immediately flicked past her shoulder.
“Speak of the devil,” she whispered, voice sugar-sweet and full of mischief.
But it wasn’t Tassio.
It was Nicolás.
Fina felt it the moment he stepped into the room. He had a way of drawing focus, soft-spoken though as he was. Tall, warm smile, tidy brown curls. He looked right at her the moment he entered, as he always did, as though no one else in the room existed.
Her fingers stiffened around a bottle of Flor de Lirio.
“Good morning,” he said, walking over like he belonged right next to her. He didn’t. Not really. He was Tassio’s friend, and he worked in logistics. Somewhere between deliveries and shop displays, but that didn’t explain the way he always managed to find his way to her.
Carmen stood up with an overly dramatic stretch. “Well, that’s my break,” she said, grinning at Fina and brushing imaginary dust off her skirt. “I’ll just leave you two to whatever this is.”
She gave Fina a wink as she passed. Fina wanted to melt into the floor.
Nicolás stepped closer, hands in his pockets. “You’re always working,” he said softly.
Fina gave a small smile. “That’s what they pay me for.”
“You could at least pretend to be excited to see me.”
“I’m sorting lavender soaps,” she said, holding up a bar. “It’s hard to compete with this.”
He laughed. Genuinely. And somehow that made her feel worse.
Because he was kind. He was exactly the kind of boy her father would be proud of — respectful, clean-cut, hardworking. And he liked her. He had liked her for years. Only recently had he begun to show it, with shy smiles, slow walks back up the hill to the driver’s cottage, his fingers brushing hers like it was an accident. But it never was.
Fina looked at him now, at his hopeful eyes and careful words, and tried to feel something more than guilt.
She couldn’t.
And that scared her.
When other girls talked about boys (even about him, maybe especially about him) they lit up. They sighed and laughed and whispered and wanted. Fina tried to mimic the rhythm of their excitement, but it felt like lip-syncing to a song she had never actually heard.
She looked at Nicolás now, this boy with a heart on his sleeve, and told herself again to try.
She really did try.
But when he stepped closer and their hands brushed, all she could think about was the smell of fig trees after a summer storm, and the way Marta de la Reina looked at her once upon a time with her glimmering eyes, blue like the summer sky.
And that was the beginning of her undoing.
The sun was beginning to fall lower in the sky by the time Fina left the warehouse, casting long, golden shadows across the hills that wrapped around the De la Reina estate like protective arms. The air was warm with the soft weight of late afternoon, smelling of dry earth, olive trees, and something sweet, maybe the lingering scent of perfume clinging to her skin.
She walked slowly, letting her fingers skim the tops of tall grasses that lined the dirt path. Below, the factory roof glimmered, the steady rhythm a part of her life for as long as she could remember. She loved this land in the way someone loves something they were born into: without question, without needing a reason. The rolling hills, the distant song of birds hidden in cypress groves, the way light filtered through the leaves like honey, all of it made her feel, in moments like this, impossibly lucky.
And yet, as the sand-colored stone of the Casa Grande came into view, tall and sun-warmed and beautiful against the landscape, a familiar knot twisted in her stomach.
She never quite felt like she belonged here.
Her father, Isidro, had been the driver for the De la Reina family since before she was born. He was part of their lives in a way that often made people forget he wasn't of them. He knew their habits, their tempers, their tragedies. Damian de la Reina trusted him like a brother. He was always invited to the big events, always at ease in the house with its high ceilings and carved balconies.
Fina, on the other hand, had never known how to be in those rooms.
The De la Reinas had always been kind to her, warm, even, but that didn’t change the way she felt walking past their gates. As if she were trespassing on something delicate, beautiful, and definetly not hers. Not really. Their world was polished floors and French verbs, elegant clothes and soft hands. Fina's world was work aprons and sorting crates and dreams that had to be earned inch by inch.
She had just passed through the smaller side gate that led up to the main house when she heard the low growl of an engine behind her. Turning, she squinted into the light and recognized the familiar black car immediately: sleek, always spotless, glinting in the sun, looking like something out of a magazine.
Her father was behind the wheel.
He slowed as he passed, rolled down the window, and lifted a hand in greeting. His smile was brief, he didn’t stop. He kept going, taking the circular drive up to the grand front entrance of the house.
Fina tilted her head, watching.
Then the car came to a stop, and her breath caught in her throat.
The passenger door opened. A pale, slender foot in elegant heels touched the gravel first. Then the rest of her stepped out.
Marta de la Reina.
Fina’s heart jolted in her chest.
It had been nearly a year since she'd last seen her. A year since Marta had gone back to France to finish another year of university. A year of quiet mornings, familiar tasks, and trying very hard not to think too much about the girl who always seemed made of glass and moonlight and other unreachable things.
But now she was here.
Marta’s hair — once long and flowing — had been cut into something sleeker, sharper. It brushed just against her shoulders, catching the breeze in soft waves. She wore cream-colored trousers that made her look taller than she already was, and a simple white blouse tucked at the waist. Understated and effortless.
Everything about her was sophisticated and increadably entrancing.
Fina didn’t realize she had stopped walking until she heard the click of Marta’s heels on the stone steps.
Damian came down first. They kissed each other’s cheeks, all formality and stiff affection. Then Jesús, tall and stern, appeared, and offered a hand. Their exchange was quick, efficient, the way people greet each other more out of obligation than emotion.
But then Andrés came out.
Marta's face transformed.
She grinned — a real, warm, open smile— and threw her arms around him. He laughed, lifting her slightly off the ground in their hug, and she grabbed his face in both hands as she said something Fina couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it made them both laugh again.
That was when Isidro spotted her. He raised a hand, gesturing for her to come closer.
Fina hesitated.
She looked down at her clothes, the dust on her skirt, the crease in her blouse, the smudge of soap scent on her wrists. She had tied her hair back hastily at the end of her shift, and now wished she had done more. Anything more.
Her legs felt leaden as she made her way up the drive.
And then Marta turned.
And looked straight at her.
Those eyes — a clear, impossible blue, like the Mediterranean on still days — landed on her, and something in Fina’s chest fluttered to life.Marta smiled. Small, soft. But unmistakably kind.
“Fina,” her father said proudly, placing a hand on her back, as though she were something to be presented. “Look who we brought home.”
As if they didn’t know each other. As if they hadn’t grown up in the same house.
But maybe they didn’t. Not really. Fina had always been there in the background, and Marta had always been — well, Marta. Out of reach, even when close.
“Marta,” Fina said, quietly, hoping her voice didn’t betray the chaos in her chest.
“Fina,” Marta said with a small nod, her voice softer than she remembered. “It’s good to see you.”
And just like that, Fina remembered.
Her father had told her this morning that he was picking Marta up from the airport. How had she forgotten? How had she let that slip past her?
Marta was here.
Somehow, in the long stretch of silence that followed, Fina felt ten again. Full of dreams she had learned not to say out loud. Standing on the edge of someone else’s world, wondering what it would be like to be part of it.
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
Having Marta home again was... strange.
It was like the house itself breathed differently. Like something had shifted, subtly but completely — the tempo of footsteps on marble, the smell of foreign perfume in the air, the occasional soft laugh heard through an open window. Even the light seemed to hit the stone walls differently, as if it, too, were paying attention.
Fina didn't let herself think about it too much. Because if she did, she'd remember how ridiculous it was — how embarrassing it was really — to look forward to something as small as a glimpse. A flicker of Marta passing through a hallway. The sound of her voice down the corridor. The clack of her heels echoing off the high ceilings.
She wasn’t looking forward to seeing Marta.
She was just... noticing things.
It was different.
That’s what she told herself anyway.
Today, the sun had painted everything gold, and Fina had taken her book out to the shared garden behind the estate to her favorite spot. A tree that had once seemed as tall as the sky, back when she was small enough that climbing it felt like conquering a mountain. Now she could swing herself up onto the lowest branch with barely a hop. But when she sat there, legs dangling, one foot swinging in the air, the tree still made her feel like a child again. Like she could hide here. Be no one.
She flipped the page of the book Carmen had lent her, something romantic and a little silly, but good company nonetheless and let the summer hum around her. The air was thick with the scent of rosemary and sun-warmed leaves. A bee buzzed lazily somewhere overhead.
Then, movement to her right.
She lowered her book just slightly, peeking past it.
And there she was.
Marta.
Stepping barefoot onto the grass near the pool, a tall glass of something cold in one hand, the sunlight hitting her in that way that made her look like she belonged in a film. Her blonde curls gleamed, shorter now than they used to be, catching light like threads of gold. She tilted her head up, letting the sun warm her face, her shoulders. She has always had beautiful shoulders. Then her eyes began to scan the garden.
Fina froze.
Marta’s gaze landed on her.
And Fina was suddenly very aware that she had been staring. She jerked her eyes back to her book, pretending to read a sentence she hadn’t actually looked at. Her heart thumped against her ribs like it wanted out.
She waited.
But the sound of footsteps came anyway. slow, soft and yet deliberate and self assued. She had such an alluring way to move. Marta didn’t move like anyone else Fina knew. She didn’t rush. She didn’t hesitate. She glided. Even in something as simple as a linen shirt and a pair of loose, cuffed pants, she looked like she did everything with a purpose.
Fina glanced down and saw her coming closer. There was nowhere to run. And why would she run? This was her tree. Her branch. Her book.
Still, she lowered it slightly and pressed it against her thigh as Marta stopped below the tree, looking up.
“You look awfully comfortable,” Marta said, her voice light, amused.
Fina blinked. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her mind went completely, totally blank.
Why did she never have words when Marta talked to her?
She smiled instead, hoping it looked less panicked than she felt.
But Marta didn’t seem to mind the silence. If anything, she seemed used to it. She looked around at the garden, at the way the leaves dappled light across the grass.
“This used to be my favorite tree too, you know,” Marta added. “When I were younger. I once tried to sleep in it.”
Fina let out a quiet laugh — surprised it escaped her.
“You did?”
Marta nodded. “Packed a blanket and half the library. I think I made it until midnight.”
“What happened?”
“The wind picked up. I thought I heard a ghost.”
Fina smiled again, more easily this time.
“France is less haunted, I guess,” she said softly.
Marta tilted her head and looked up at her, studying her for a second longer than necessary.
“It is,” she said. “Though the plumbing in my dormitory made noises that could rival any spirit.”
Fina laughed gently and shifted slightly on her branch, the bark warm under her hands. She hesitated, then asked: “And… how is it there? Really? You like it?”
Marta’s expression softened. “I do.”
But there was something in the way she said it — too quick, too clean. Like a note rehearsed a thousand times.
She went on: “Paris is… fast. Everything moves all the time. The streets are always busy, and people talk quickly. Think quickly. It’s exhausting sometimes, but it’s beautiful. The buildings are old and stand proud. Like they know who they are. I spend hours just walking. You don’t need a reason to walk there, you can just let yourself float.”
Fina nodded, quietly enraptured.
But then something shifted. A flicker. Barely a second. Marta’s voice faltered ever so slightly. She caught herself. Smiled again. The smile was perfect. But now that Fina had seen it slip, it was hard to unsee it.
“That sounded very polished,” Fina said before she could stop herself.
Marta looked up at her, surprised.
Fina shrugged, cheeks going warm. “I mean… it sounds like something you’ve told a lot of people. Like you got it off a postcard.”
Marta’s eyes didn’t leave hers. For a moment, she didn’t say anything.
Then she exhaled a small breath, like a laugh that hadn’t fully formed.
“You’re the first person who’s said that,” she said. “Everyone else just nods and tells me how lucky I am.”
“Are you?”
Marta looked up again, her gaze meeting Fina’s.
For the first time, there was something unguarded in it.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Maybe.”
The air between them felt different now. For a moment, they weren’t the driver's daughter and the daughter of the estate. They were two girls sitting under a tree in the sun, admitting, in their own quiet ways, that maybe neither of them had it all figured out. It was strangely reassuring.
Marta stepped closer to the trunk.
“Can I come up?”
Fina blinked. “Here? You want to—?”
Marta was already grabbing hold of a branch.
“I told you I used to live in this tree,” she said, hoisting herself up with surprising ease.
She settled on the branch just opposite Fina, brushing a curl from her face, a bit breathless from the short climb. Their knees almost touched.
And Fina laughed.
Marta looked at her and smiled, truly this time. Less polished, a lot more like a girl.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Marta said with a little smile, settling into the crook of the opposite branch like it was something she did all the time.
Fina grinned, caught.
“I just didn’t think—” she began, but didn’t finish.
Because what could she say?
I didn’t think you noticed me? I didn’t think someone like you would want to sit beside someone like me, up in a tree like we’re still twelve years old?
So instead she said nothing. Let her grin say the rest.
Marta glanced down at the book resting on Fina’s thigh. “What are you reading?”
Fina looked at it as if she had forgotten it was there. “Something Carmen lent me. La sombra del viento. Have you read it?”
Marta nodded, her eyes lighting up. “I loved that book. The way the streets of Barcelona felt like a character on their own…”
Her voice softened as she spoke, her words taking on that rhythm Fina remembered, slow and considered, like they’d been carefully chosen before being said. Fina listened. Really listened. Not just because she was being polite, but because she wanted to absorb every single word.
She liked the way Marta spoke.
She always had.
Even as a child, Fina had noticed how Marta strung words together like pearls, so deliberate, so elegant. It was one of the reasons Fina had started reading in the first place. Books had felt like a doorway, like maybe if she read enough, she could learn to speak like that too. To say things that made people feel something.
Fina looked at her then, letting herself, for once, because listening was the perfect excuse. Marta’s features had sharpened since she left. Her cheekbones were more defined, her expression more measured, like someone who had learned to protect parts of herself. Still, there was something soft in the way she tilted her head, in the way her eyes narrowed just slightly when she smiled.
“I missed this garden,” Marta said after a pause, glancing around. “Nothing ever changes here. That used to bother me. Now I think… maybe it’s comforting.”
Fina didn’t answer right away. She was thinking. Thinking about how strange it must be to be so far away from everything and everyone familiar, to come home and find it untouched, still here, still waiting. How brave that was, really. Braver than she had realized.
There was a lull in the conversation, quiet but not uncomfortable. Fina couldn't remember if there had ever been an uncomfortable silence between them. Not even when they were still growing up. They always had things to do or even talk about. It was a comforting thing to notice.
Marta sighed softly and looked back at Fina. “I should go,” she said, though her voice didn’t sound entirely convinced.
Fina nodded, though everything inside her wanted to ask her to stay.
Just a little longer.
She had so many questions. So many things she wanted to know — about Paris, about Marta’s classes, about whether she ever got lonely or afraid or if she missed home the way Fina missed something she never quite had.
But she just nodded.
And watched.
With a graceful motion, she swung her legs down and climbed out of the tree, her movements smooth and elegant, like water slipping from stone. Marta reached for the glass she’d placed by the trunk and stood.
She dusted off her trousers lightly, then glanced up one last time.
Their eyes met.
Marta smiled. Not the polite smile she gave everyone, it was something more gentle, more private.
Then she turned and walked back across the grass, her figure receding into the glow of the sunlit terrace, disappearing into the house that still didn’t quite feel like it was part of Fina’s world.
But something had changed.
Fina stayed up in the tree for a long while after that, her book still open but forgotten in her lap, her eyes tracing the shadows Marta had left behind.
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
Some days felt like they belonged in a marmelade glass, they were perfect, warm and needed to be preserved in memory before they’d even ended.
This was one of those days.
The sun had been hot from the moment it crested the hills, spilling light across the rooftops and olive groves in soft gold. The kind of heat that promised a slower pace, long shadows, bare feet, and water.
Fina pedaled her bike through the winding dirt path that led away from the estate, her front wheel kicking up dust, her laughter mingling with the sound of Carmen and Claudia’s chatter behind her. Tassio and Nicolás were up ahead, racing each other like children, whooping as they swerved between trees. The air smelled of sun-baked pine and dry wildflowers.
Their destination was familiar, a stream hidden between the trees, far enough from the estate to feel like another world. A small clearing opened up to a patch of riverbank, dotted with flat rocks warm enough to lie on and shaded by a thick canopy of leaves that dappled the sun across everything like lace.
The stream sparkled, cold and clear, winding its way through mossy stones and dipping roots. It made the air cooler, crisper, and the moment they reached it, shoes were kicked off, towels thrown onto the grass, and the spell of the heat was broken by the first delighted screams of cold water splashing skin.
Fina stepped in last, wading in slowly, letting the cold creep up her calves and then her thighs until she gasped at the shock of it. Carmen shrieked beside her and grabbed her hand for balance, pulling both of them deeper with a splash. Claudia had already submerged herself completely, resurfacing with a victorious grin and her hair slicked back.
“Last one in has to kiss Tassio!” she cried.
“I’d rather kiss a snail!” Carmen of all people shouted, and laughter erupted from the whole group, including Tassio, who pretended to clutch his heart in mock injury.
The boys had tied a rope to the thickest branch of the old sycamore tree years ago, and it still held strong. One by one, they took turns swinging from it, plunging into the deeper part of the stream with wild cries of joy. Fina watched them with a quiet smile, her arms folded over the edge of a flat rock, her body half-submerged in the water.
Nicolás had barely left her side all day.
He wasn’t obvious. It was in the way he always ended up on the same towel. How his shoulder brushed hers when they sat down. The way his eyes lingered a little longer than necessary on her sun-warmed skin, on the wet waves of her hair clinging to her back, on the droplets that slid down her arms and legs like they had the permission to.
And it didn’t make Fina uncomfortable. Not exactly.
But there was a kind of weight in it. A quiet pressure she didn’t know what to do with.
Because she liked Nicolás. She wanted to like him more. Her father adored him. He was thoughtful, honest, the kind of boy her friends all envied her for. And today on a day like this, full of laughter and light and card games played in wet swimsuits on dry grass, she wanted to stop thinking. To just be in the moment.
She played along when Carmen splashed her in the face. She swung from the rope, screaming midair and laughing breathlessly when she came up for air. She lay on her stomach with her towel pulled over her head to block the sun, while Claudia read tarot cards she claimed were accurate only on weekends. They played cards with sticky hands, shared fruit that had gone warm in the sun, and dozed in the late afternoon heat.
It was freedom.
It was simple joy.
It was the kind of day that made it easy to forget, or at least quiet, the things that lived deeper in her chest.
But still, even as she laughed and leaned against Carmen’s shoulder, even as Nicolás passed her a peach and their fingers brushed, something inside her remained untouched. Waiting. Quietly watching the space that Marta’s presence had reawakened.
She let the feeling drift for now. Let the day belong to sunlight and water and friends. Let herself be eighteen and golden, without needing to explain why her heart didn’t flutter when Nicolás smiled, but still caught on a breeze when she thought of a voice, a glance, a smile from under a tree.
The sun had begun to mellow, sliding toward the horizon with a kind of golden exhaustion. The heat no longer clung to their skin with the same insistence, and the shade beneath the trees had grown cooler, gentler. The boys had disappeared down to the water one last time, their laughter echoing between the trees in bursts, leaving the girls stretched out on their towels like lazy cats.
Fina lay on her back, her arm flung over her eyes, the book they’d been passing around earlier resting open across her stomach. She could hear the leaves whispering above her, the occasional hum of a bee, the sound of Claudia shuffling the deck of cards again out of boredom. The shifting sunlight painted her skin in soft patches of light and shadow, and for a moment, she let herself drift in and out of sleep, lulled by the stillness.
Then Carmen’s voice broke through.
“So,” she said casually, too casually. “What’s going on with you and Nicolás?”
Fina didn’t move.
She kept her arm over her face, as if shielding herself from the question.
“Nothing,” she said, voice flat.
Claudia snorted. “Try again.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fina muttered.
“Oh, come on,” Carmen said, shifting to lean on one elbow. “You two were basically glued together all day.”
“He was being nice,” Fina replied.
“He’s always nice,” Claudia chimed in. “But today he looked like he wanted to paint you.”
Fina groaned and finally sat up, letting the book fall beside her. What did that even mean? She crossed her legs and looked away from her friends, out toward the water. The boys were still down there, splashing around like they were ten years old. Nicolás’s laughter was unmistakable, low and warm.
Familiar.
“He likes you,” Carmen said gently.
“I know,” Fina said. And that was the problem.
Claudia leaned forward, brows drawn. “So? Do you like him?”
Fina opened her mouth. Closed it again.
She didn’t know how to explain it. Not in a way that made sense. Not in a way that didn’t make her feel like she was wrong, or broken, or strange.
“He’s… good,” she said instead. “He’s kind. He listens. He brings me books he thinks I’ll like. He remembers what I tell him. He’s patient. And I try. I really do.”
“So you do want to like him,” Carmen said softly.
Fina nodded, eyes still on the river.
There was a long pause, filled only by the sound of birds and the distant splash of someone cannonballing into the water.
Carmen, always more blunt, said, “Then what’s the problem?”
Fina was quiet for a long time.
Then, in a voice so low they almost didn’t hear it: “I don’t feel anything.”
Claudia looked at her, brows drawing slightly. “Like… not at all?”
Fina shook her head. “I’ve tried. I’ve really tried. He holds my hand, and I feel... nothing. Sometimes I even flinch. I don’t know why. He’s perfect. He’s everything someone is supposed to want. And when he looks at me like that—” she broke off, pressing her lips together. “—I just feel guilty. Like I’m wasting his time. Like there’s something wrong with me.”
“Fina,” Carmen said, reaching out and squeezing her arm. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“But there must be,” Fina insisted, her voice rising a little. “Everyone says it. He’s perfect. You’ve said it. Claudia’s said it. My dad thinks I should marry him already.”
“Just because he’s good doesn’t mean he’s the kind of good for you,” Claudia said quietly.
Fina blinked at her.
And Carmen added, “Sometimes your heart doesn’t work like everyone else’s. That’s not wrong.”
Fina looked back down at the water. Nicolás had just emerged from it, shaking out his hair, laughing at something Tassio said. He looked up toward their group, spotted her, and smiled.
She forced a small one back.
He deserved better than someone who couldn’t even return a smile without effort.
She turned away.
“I wish I could just…” she trailed off.
“Feel it?” Carmen finished.
Fina nodded.
And in the quiet that followed, she thought of Marta. The softness in her voice. The way her smile seemed like it had been saved just for her. The way it had felt to sit across from her in the tree and listen. To want to listen.
She thought of how just being near Marta had always made her feel like her skin was glowing from the inside.
And she thought of how none of that had anything to do with trying.
The sunlight had already begun to dip behind the hills by the time Fina glanced at the watch on Nicolás’s towel. She had to squint to read the hands through the glare of gold and smudged glass and then she squeaked.
“Mierda,” she gasped, bolting upright. “It’s almost six!”
Carmen and Claudia both looked up in alarm.
“I was supposed to be home already,” Fina said, already throwing her towel over her shoulder and stepping into her sandals. “There’s that dinner — the one with my dad, at the De la Reina’s—”
“You’re still coming tomorrow, right?” Claudia asked as Fina grabbed her bag.
“Yes, yes—! Just don’t let Carmen do the cocktails this time—”
“One time,” Carmen groaned. “I put salt instead of sugar one time—”
Fina kissed their cheeks quickly, laughing, breathless. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”
She tossed a wave at the boys, who were climbing out of the water, and then she was pedaling away, her towel flying behind her, the afternoon slipping into amber all around her.
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
By the time she reached home, Fina’s skin was sticky with sun and sweat. She darted up the stairs, dropped her bag by the bathroom door, and stepped under the shower before the water had even warmed. She scrubbed quickly, fingers trembling from urgency, shampooing twice and rinsing so fast that she wasn’t sure she’d gotten it all.
Her skin was flushed, her cheeks sun-kissed, and when she sat down in front of her little mirror with the fading silver frame, she noticed the freckles dusting her nose and cheeks had returned. The tan from today’s swim made the cream dress she’d picked out weeks ago - simple, soft and slightly cinched at the waist - look even better against her skin.
She smiled at her reflection. She liked how she looked.
Her makeup routine was short and familiar; a bit of color on her lips, a touch of mascara. She towel-dried her hair once more, knowing there was no time to tame it properly. It would fall in wild waves down her back. There was no stopping it now.
When she finally ran downstairs, her father was already waiting at the bottom, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. He looked up at her, eyes warm.
“Mi niña,” he said with a smile. “You look beautiful.”
Fina grinned, touched by his softness. “Gracias, papá. Sorry I’m late.”
He offered his arm, and together they stepped through the connected side entrance that led into the De la Reina house, through the private door they’d always used. It opened into one of the back halls, just off the main staircase.
Fina was too busy fussing with the folds of her dress, making sure it didn’t cling too much, or wrinkle where it shouldn’t, to notice the sound of soft steps approaching from around the corner.
By the time she looked up, it was too late.
She collided with someone head-on, the soft thud of bodies meeting halting both of them mid-step.
Hands caught her forearms, steadying, firm and gentle. A flash of perfume. Expensive. Floral, but not sweet. Warm, with something grounded in it. Maybe sandalwood.
Fina’s eyes met Marta’s.
And for a breath, neither of them moved.
They were close. Closer than they’d ever been. Fina could see the individual freckles on Marta’s collarbone, the subtle shimmer of her highlighter, the sharp blue of her eyes under long lashes. Marta's hands still rested on her arms, and Fina wasn’t breathing. She didn’t think she could breathe.
Then Marta blinked — as if waking from something — and took a small step back.
“Perdona,” she said quickly, smoothing the skirt of her pale green dress as if it gave her something to do. “I didn’t see you there.”
Fina opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “No — I’m sorry, I was—”
But Marta had already looked back up at her. And she didn’t look annoyed. Or even startled anymore.
She looked... thoughtful.
“You look beautiful,” she said.
Simple. Without hesitation.
Fina froze.
The words didn’t just reach her ears. They landed. Landed somewhere below her ribs and unfolded there like paper catching fire. She could feel her face begin to flush. This time it wasn't from the heat. It was something deeper and more dangerous.
“Thanks,” she said quickly, looking down. “You too.”
Marta smiled, the kind that didn’t quite reach her lips but showed in her eyes. “Cream suits you. You look like summer.”
Fina laughed, quiet and unsure. She didn’t know what to do with that. No one had ever said something like that to her. Not like that. Not in that voice.
And not Marta.
“Thanks,” Fina said again, softer this time.
The silence stretched.
The corridor smelled faintly of beeswax and perfume, and Fina was still trying to slow the hammering in her chest when Marta stepped back. For a second, their conversation hovered like a held breath, unfinished, but that didn't matter because it was already being swept away by the quiet shift in Marta’s expression.
Marta’s eyes had flicked past Fina, over her shoulder. Fina turned instinctively, only to see her father standing just inside the doorway, watching them.
Isidro wore that gentle, amused smile he always had when he caught her in a moment she hadn’t meant to be seen in. But it was Marta’s reaction that surprised Fina.
She stiffened — only slightly, but Fina caught it: the way her shoulders straightened, her arms folded loosely at her waist as though to compose herself.
Then Isidro stepped forward.
“Marta,” he said warmly. “ Look at you — toda una mujer.”
Marta’s smile returned, softer this time. She stepped toward him and kissed both his cheeks with practiced affection. “Qué alegría verte, Isidro.”
There was warmth between them, that much was clear. But also something cautious, like familiarity tinted with formality.
“I’ll join you both in a moment,” Marta said then, her voice light again as she tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “Go ahead.”
Isidro nodded and again offered his arm to Fina. As they stepped outside, Fina glanced back. Marta was standing still, her fingers brushing the fabric of her dress where she’d smoothed it earlier, her eyes momentarily unfocused.
Fina followed her father down the hallway, her heart still pounding from the impact. But now, it wasn’t from the rush.
It was from the way Marta had looked at her.
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
The terrace glowed in the golden haze of early evening.
Tere had outdone herself — the long table was dressed in pressed white linen and heavy silver cutlery. Crystal glasses glinted in the last light of day. The plates, with their delicate gold rims and soft blue floral designs, were clearly reserved for special occasions.
Fina tried not to feel out of place. She’d seen this table before, had even helped clean it, but sitting at it was something else entirely.
She and her father made the rounds first. Damian de la Reina was already deep in conversation with a couple Fina didn’t recognize, and he greeted Isidro with a firm, familiar clap on the shoulder.
“This is my daughter, Fina,” Isidro introduced her to the couple.
Fina gave the couple a polite smile, her hands clasped in front of her, and nodded to Damian, who gave her an approving look and said, “Mira qué mayor.” He turned to the couple beside him. “Isidro and his daughter — they are family, really.”
The word "family" caught somewhere in Fina’s throat. It felt too large, too generous. She smiled again and said nothing.
At the table, she spotted a few familiar faces. Begoña, Jesús’s poised, smiling wife, with their daughter Julia on her lap, bouncing happily, cheeks already stained with fruit. Fina adored Julia, the little girl always waved when she saw her and often demanded to be picked up, regardless of adult conversations.
Andres’s girlfriend, María, sat at the other end of the table, looking as stiff and untouchable as ever, her posture as straight as her knife was sharp. Fina had never quite figured her out.
There was no one else her age. Not tonight.
She was still taking it all in when she felt the air shift again. A quiet hush of attention moving toward the house.
Marta stepped onto the terrace.
She had changed into heels to match her soft green dress, elegant and understated, the color making her skin glow as if it had trapped the last light of the sun. Her hair, slightly wind-tossed, fell in loose waves around her face. She looked perfect. Effortless. As always untouchable.
The guests turned. Smiled. Called out her name. She returned their warmth with a perfectly modulated smile, not cold, but not exactly real, either. Fina could tell. The difference was subtle, but it was there.
She wore it like a shield.
Marta moved gracefully between the chairs, accepting kisses on cheeks, compliments, and welcomes home. And then — almost casually, as if it were nothing — she took the seat directly across from Fina.
Fina nearly exhaled in relief.
She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.
A moment later, Damian stood, his glass raised. Everyone followed suit.
“To my daughter,” he said, his voice rich and commanding. “To Marta.”
He looked at her then, pride warming his face. “We are so lucky to have her home. She’s grown into a remarkable woman. Intelligent, capable, and driven — everything I dreamed she’d become. I’ve no doubt she’ll lead our family’s legacy into the future, stronger than ever.”
There was applause, warm and polite, and Marta smiled, nodding once in gratitude. But Fina was watching closely, too closely maybe, because she saw the way that smile didn’t reach her eyes. It was perfectly poised and hollow.
It made something ache in Fina’s chest.
Then Marta’s eyes found hers.
And for the smallest second, everything stopped.
It wasn’t a long look. It wasn’t even intense. But there was something in it. Something bare. Marta looked like someone who had just been seen, really seen, and didn’t quiet know what to do with it.
She looked away quickly.
Then she stood.
Her voice was clear, her posture straight. “Thank you, Padre,” she said. “And thank you, everyone, for being here.”
Another smile — perfect again. But Fina could see now how carefully it was crafted. The way Marta’s shoulders held tension beneath the fabric of her dress.
“It’s good to be home,” she added. “And I hope we can enjoy many more evenings like this.”
Polite clapping followed. Glasses were raised. The evening resumed.
But Marta didn’t look at Fina again.
Not once.
And as course after course was served — grilled vegetables drizzled in olive oil, lamb with rosemary, soft cheeses and crusty bread — Fina found herself losing her appetite entirely. Her fork moved food around her plate, but she barely tasted it. Not even the olives she loved. Not even the little tartlets with lemon cream.
The words from yesterday — the laughter, the tree, even the soft compliment about her looking like summer — all felt like a dream now. Like something she had made up in her head.
Marta didn’t even glance her way.
And Fina sat in her pretty cream dress, her tan glowing in the twilight, her stomach hollow and twisting, wondering why she’d let herself think it could be something. Anything. Why she always wanted things she couldn’t have.
She was still Fina. Marta was still Marta.
The laughter at the table had grown louder. Wine flowed easily now. Glasses were refilled without asking. The older guests were telling stories that made the men slap their knees and the women shake their heads fondly. Begoña was bouncing Julia on her hip. Even María smiled faintly at something Damian said… or maybe she was just being polite.
Everything shimmered with that strange evening light, just after sunset when the sky is still pink, and the lanterns above the terrace haven’t fully taken over yet.
And Fina couldn’t breathe.
She had smiled when people looked her way. Laughed when her father made a joke about her as a baby refusing to wear shoes. She nodded at Andrés when he asked her something. She wasn’t even sure what.
But the pit in her stomach only grew.
Marta still hadn’t looked at her. Not once.
Fina told herself it didn’t matter.
She told herself to stop being childish.
She told herself she wasn’t here for Marta.
But the truth was loud in her chest, and it drowned out everything else.
She picked at the last fruit on her plate, then finally put her fork down.
“Excuse me,” she said softly, barely interrupting the conversation at her end of the table.
Her father looked at her first, blinking. “Are you alright?”
She nodded quickly. “Just need a moment.”
He nodded back, trusting her. Always trusting her.
Fina stood, gently smoothing her dress, and slipped away from the table, unnoticed by most. The chatter filled the space behind her. She passed Marta’s chair, and though she didn’t mean to… she looked.
Marta didn’t.
She walked barefoot across the flagstones of the terrace, her heels swinging loosely from her hand. She hadn’t lasted more than two hours in them anyway. The grass at the far end of the garden, just past the hedge, still held the last warmth of the day. She walked toward it like someone walking underwater, her limbs slow and heavy.
She sat down on the edge of the low stone wall near the garden's edge, just far enough that the voices behind her turned into indistinct murmurs. She took a deep breath.
The night smelled like roses and mint. The sky had turned violet.
She looked at her hands. Her polished nails. The soft fabric of her cream dress. She looked like she belonged at that table.
But she didn’t feel like she did.
Fina closed her eyes.
She thought of the rope swing over the stream. Of Carmen’s teasing. Of the taste of sun-warmed peaches. Of Marta’s hands on her arms. Of how close they’d been. Of the words you look like summer.
And now, Marta wouldn’t even look at her.
Fina wasn’t sure what had happened. Or what she had done wrong. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
She wrapped her arms around herself and tilted her head back to look at the sky.
And that’s where she stayed for a while, quiet, still, letting the evening pass without her