Chapter Text
Ramón drives her back home. She appreciates that Ceci, Ro and Juan Carlos all decide to keep her company during the ride. She just wishes they wouldn’t look at her like that. Like she’s terminally ill and they don’t know what to say to comfort her. Like she has just been rejected and nobody knows how to pick the pieces back up. They give her these horribly tight-lipped, helpless smiles. The ones that you offer to someone after they’ve fallen in the middle of the street, and you were too slow to help but still want them to know you would have helped given the chance.
It’s awful, she feels like they’re judging her, somehow, and she wants to roll her eyes at them, tell them to stop. But she also doesn’t want to push them away. So she grins and bears it, lets them openly express their pity, doesn’t say anything. The others don’t say anything, either; so while their faces may be screaming at her, the ride itself is quiet.
Which means she’s alone with her thoughts. She’s proud of herself, of course, for confessing her feelings. She’s glad that, finally, after what has been an endless back and forth between her and Mariana, they’re both on the same page. She is, indeed, very happy that their feelings are mutual. But at the same time, she cannot help but wonder whether it really matters. Does it? When the woman of her dreams is on a plane, is on her way to spend the next three months thousands of kilometers away from her? No, she doesn’t feel like it does. And that particular feeling outweighs all of the positives.
What a shame it is. That the universe has such a strange way of making things happen. With long detours and thousands of missed opportunities thrown into one’s path. Rejecting Mariana out of betrayal. Becoming her boss, trying to make her ideas happen. The lawsuit. Being forced to pretend to be a couple. Falling for her. Admitting it, only to be betrayed again. Not rejecting, but being rejected. Finding herself on a retreat. Reestablishing her relationship—with Juan Carlos of all people. Trying to stop her from leaving, doing anything to get her to stay. Realizing that that is not the person she wants to be anymore—the control freak who manipulates others to get her way.
And, ultimately, setting Mariana free, going against her own desires, as Pablo had so fittingly put it.
A sigh involuntarily escapes her. The fact that Mariana feels the same for her, that she loves her, cannot wipe away the sadness left within her by the woman’s departure. It cannot fill the void in her heart. What Mariana feels is unimportant. If they’re not together after all that they’ve been through, then what’s the point? What good is it to know that they’re both in love? If it leads nowhere?
A part of her—the deeply masochistic one—wishes Mariana had rejected her again. At least, that way, she would be able to focus her energy on falling out of love for good. Instead, she will spend the next three months pining. Wishing. Dreaming. Thinking constantly about the things they could do if they were together.
Her heart breaks, over and over again. Every time the words replay in her head. Yo también te amo, Ana. Could she not have kept it to herself? Why did she have to admit it? Like that, in front of everyone, right before leaving? For three months? Three months will be absolute torture.
“Ma, you’re crying. Are you okay?” Ceci’s concerned voice hits her, and it is way too loud after having been lost in her own thoughts; like a sledgehammer hitting a wall five, ten times in quick succession right next to her.
Ana is sensitive. Emotionally. Physically. “Yeah,” she chokes out, and it sounds unbelievable even to herself. “I’m just—”
Without waiting for the answer, her daughter wraps her in a side hug. She tells her, “It’s okay to let yourself cry, ma. You’re just human. You are a human being, someone who has just had to let the love of their life go. For three months.”
The words love of your life stir something within Ana. She’s not sure she’s thought of it like that. It must hold some truth, however, considering how miserable she is, when it has been a mere hour since she last saw Mariana. “I just miss her so much,” she mumbles. Her hair is gently being stroked; as if she were the child being cared for by its mother. “I don’t know how to make it for that amount of time. It feels like we’ve been constantly together for so long that I—” A sob racks her shaking body. “I don’t know how to live without her. I know it sounds stupid, but—and—not to mention that we don’t how long she will stay when she comes back, and—and how long she will be gone for next time and—” That’s all she can manage before her body shuts down, and no other words make it past her lips.
“I know, ma. I’m so sorry. I know you’ve gotten used to having her around. So have we. But I’m here for you. So is Ro. And dad. We love you.” They stay like that for the rest of the ride, holding one another.
It helps Ana, if only a bit.
The house is looking, and feeling, bigger than ever. And it certainly is emptier: Ceci and Ro have stayed in the car with Ramón—something about giving her space, knowing she likely wants to be alone right now—and Juan Carlos doesn’t want to be in her way, either. She appreciates it, for she doesn’t think she’d make for the best company today, anyway. The lack of colors and ornaments is doing nothing to improve her mood, either. It’s like the white walls take every single one of her thoughts, chew them all up into one concentrated mess, and spit them right back at her. Her sadness ricochets off of every painting, every table, every vase, and it echoes around the house—making her confront it time and time again.
Damn the decision of putting tiles everywhere, too. Everything just mocks her, shows her how lost and alone she is. How lonely she is. How lonely she will be for the next three months, and then potentially more so afterwards. Ana can’t bear being downstairs. With her bag still attached to her shoulder, she marches into the kitchen to dismiss Alta for the day, then hurries to the stairs.
“Señora, you’re going to have to eat!” Her housekeeper’s heels click on the floor behind her as she tries to catch up. “You haven’t had breakfast. You are going to at least need to have lunch.” The woman gives the large grandfather clock a pointed look. “It is half past eleven now. I will have lunch ready by one o’clock, and I trust I will see you downstairs then.”
Ana appreciates everything Altagracia does for her, the house, the children. She really does. But, again, all she wants to do right now is curl up on her bed and sleep. She is exhausted—mentally, especially—and she needs everyone to leave her be. “Alta,” she sighs, “please. I’ve given you the day off. You deserve a break. Go home.”
If she has learned one thing over the past couple of years, it is that there is no arguing with Altagracia. Ever. Once the woman has her mind set on something, you have got to just be prepared to follow along. The housekeeper steps closer, until she’s right beside Ana. “Señora,” she says again, and she crosses her arms to sound and look more threatening, “I will be here to prepare you lunch. You need to eat.”
“Alright,” Ana weakly gives in, though not without a roll of her eyes, “I’ll be there.”
The smug look she’s given makes her roll her eyes again before finally retreating to her quarters. She gets into bed without changing into pajamas, and she stops caring at once about who can or can’t hear her sob. It feels good to let it all out. To let her tears fall freely, to scream into her pillow, to punch her mattress. Why does life have to be so cruel? Why did she have to fall in love with Mariana at the wrong time? Why did she have to humiliate herself in front of her colleagues, her shareholders, Mariana? Why did she have to lose her, her job, everything they’d built? Why did she wait until the last possible second to convince Mariana of everything she feels and has felt for so long?
Why did Mariana have to tell her she reciprocated her feelings? Why did she have to do that if she was going to leave her?
Right. Of course. Because she had started her speech this morning by making Mariana promise she’d go to Tijuana no matter what. Maniacal laughter leaves her mouth, and mixed with her sobs, it sounds like she belongs in a mental institution. So then, it is nobody’s fault but her own that Mariana has left. Or is it?
She rolls around on the bed, now lying diagonally. She groans as loudly as her newly sore throat lets her.
Would Mariana—twenty-four year old, talented, amazing, beautiful, perfect Mariana—really have stayed if she hadn’t said anything? Would she really have let go of a job opportunity of a lifetime? For her? For Ana? How laughable.
Ana shakes her head, buries it into the blanket. The blanket that usually lies perfectly tidily on her bed all day is now messy and soaked with tears. If it’s uncomfortable, Ana doesn’t notice it. Exhaustion has taken over her body. Her limbs feel heavy, and she can’t move. Too little energy is left in her battery. And so it happens that, for the first time ever, she falls asleep in a fetal position, without being covered. Without first taking to her proper space on the right side of the bed.
Even the temporary unconsciousness doesn’t save her. Nightmares plague her slumber instead. Of Mariana leaving her. Of Mariana laughing in her face. Of Mariana kissing her once, then disappearing. It’s all Mariana. Everywhere. All the time.
Ana loves someone. And that someone has made clear, beyond doubt, that they love her back. This simple fact makes her more fortunate than a lot of people can ever claim to be. Yet Ana never gets to celebrate their love, she never gets to be happy about it. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Being in love and being loved, yet being unhappy. Loving with all your heart, yet being utterly alone in the world.
When Altagracia wakes her up with a yell from the bottom of the stairs, she shivers. It’s cold. Everything is cold. Her limbs don’t act according to her wishes, and it is so cold. There is a dark gray cloud hanging above her, threatening to come further down, to swallow her whole, and she wants nothing but to get up from the bed and run downstairs, run away from it.
Her legs just don’t seem to work. And so she murmurs, “Alta,” and it is with a weakness she’s never witnessed on herself, “help me up.”
Maybe, though unlikely, the woman hears her, or maybe she notices that Ana never makes it downstairs upon her waking her. Either way, she eventually comes into her room, gasping, “Señora!” before stepping closer to inspect the blonde.
Ana is still lying on the bed, still buried face-first in her blanket.
“Are you alright?”
She makes a noise, not knowing what it means. Or even what it resembles.
“Here, let me help you sit up.” She hears Alta’s heels again, indicating that she’s coming closer, and mentally prepares to be moved. “I am going to sit down on the bed with you, and turn you around. You need to breathe, first of all.” And just like that, she’s lying on her back, looking straight up at the ceiling.
It's a struggle to even keep her eyes open. She doesn’t want to be anywhere but this bed, hiding away. “I don’t actually want to get up, Alta.” Somewhere within herself, she finds the strength to turn away from her housekeeper. Trying to make a point.
“I understand, señora Ana, but it’s been seventeen hours since you last ate, and I really think you should go downstairs with me. Better yet—” Alta gets up, and out of the corner of her eye, Ana can see her walk towards the closet. “I’m picking out some clothes for you, and a towel. You’re showering. And then I’ll make you lunch.”
Not just getting up, then. It’s showering, now, too. Ana rolls her eyes with the energy she’s able to muster up. If she could, she’d scoff, too. “You’re not going to let me say no, are you, Alta?” It’s a rhetorical question, if a question at all. Her inflection doesn’t change throughout. It’s a simple fact. A statement.
Altagracia comes back out of the adjacent walk-in closet and drops everything onto her bed, right next to where Ana’s legs are positioned. She stands there, stubborn. Says, “No. I won’t.”
“Hm. Alrighty, then…”
She would never in her life admit it to Altagracia, ever, but forcing her out of the bed to take the shower was, indeed, a good idea. Maybe a great idea. Her situation hasn’t changed, of course, and she still feels the depression chase her, trying to catch up with her, trying to claim her. But the heat of the water cleanses her. It paints her day brighter—even if not her life.
It’s good to change her clothes, too. To switch over to something that isn’t a constant reminder of everything that’s happened today, everything that happened this morning. Alta has chosen for her a simple silk dress, and it is currently hanging on one of the bathroom door hooks, waiting to be put on, waiting to fit her skin just right. It looks lovely. Ana can’t wait to combine it with a blazer, maybe a necklace and some bracelets, do up her hair, and just settle in to watch some TV. It’s not her at all, it really isn’t—watching TV—but today, just for today, she thinks she’s allowed not to be herself. And not-Ana will make herself up for nobody other than herself and a bottle of good wine.
Once her hair is dry, she puts on the dress, and it fits perfectly. She can’t help but wonder suddenly why Alta would choose this dress in particular. She’s sure it would have been hanging quite far in the back because she almost never wears it; and she can’t understand why Alta went for it. “Alta, I really appreciate this and all, but what’s with the dress? Surely I don’t need to be quite so elegant to enjoy lunch.” She makes her way back into her bedroom in search for her watch while yelling at Alta—only because she’s not sure whether her housekeeper is still upstairs or has gone back downstairs while she was no doubt taking a very long shower—and, once in the room, looks at its hands. Sure enough, they indicate that it is way past their usual lunchtime. She’s expected as much. Whenever she doesn’t pay attention to how long she spends in the bathroom, it tends to be long. “Well,” she picks her original sentence back up, “perhaps it’s rather a brunch now that it’s three thirty.”
With the watch safely secured on her left wrist, her feet lead her outside of her bedroom. She’s yet to receive a reply from Alta. Or a noise. Any sort of indication to let her know where to look for the woman. “I’m downstairs,” the woman says eventually.
Ana reacts, closing her door and making her way towards the dining room where food is waiting for her. She notices Ceci’s bedroom door being open, but doesn’t really pay it any mind. Usually, Alta makes sure all doors are closed, especially whenever someone isn’t staying in the house to begin with, but today isn’t a day like every other, so she doesn’t want to get hung up on it. She simply slams it shut, then walks towards the staircase.
Just then, the doorbell rings, and a suddenly very athletic Altagracia runs to open it. Ana is so stunned that she stops in the middle of the stairs, staring ahead at the woman who seems to be—accepting pizza? At this time of day? When none has even been ordered? She’s about to say just that when the door is being closed, and Altagracia sheepishly looks up towards her. Ana furrows a brow, still halting in her original spot in the center of the marble staircase. Her hand comes into contact with the wooden railing as she’s expectantly waiting for an explanation.
None comes.
“Alta, I didn’t order anything,” she says as she finally takes the last few steps, careful not to leave the housekeeper out of sight for even a second. She always crumbles under her gaze, and Ana needs an answer. “Alta?” she reiterates upon making it onto the last step. “I didn’t order pizza.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest, pointedly mirroring the threatening image the older woman had tried to convey earlier but making sure to do it better, and waits.
“That’s right, señora, you didn’t order anything.” Altagracia doesn’t look guilty upon her admission. Instead, there’s somewhat of a smile gracing her lips, and Ana grows more suspicious by the second.
And then there’s someone else’s voice, explaining the older woman’s expression. “I did.”
Ana’s head shoots up, right into the direction of who has spoken. Nobody is supposed to be here, nobody except for her and the housekeeper she’d unsuccessfully tried to send home previously. But there is someone here. Someone who isn’t supposed to be in the city anymore.
Surely it can’t be. Is she actively losing her mind now, hallucinations and all? Or has Mariana actually come back for her? Has she never left? For her? Ana gasps. It’s involuntary. A reaction of her body’s own accord; it’s like it needs her to say it in order for this to become real. “I thought—” Before she can even think about it, she’s closed most of the distance between them, not caring about Altagracia seeing her desperation. She thought she wouldn’t see this woman for months to come, and now she’s standing right here in front of her, and she’s brought pizza, and Ana needs to be close to her, no matter who witnesses it. She wraps her arms around the brunette’s shoulders, holding on tightly, ready to stay this way forever. “I thought you’d left,” she mumbles into Mariana’s neck.
No reply comes for now. Instead, Ana feels the younger woman’s hands starting to trace circles on her back, intending to calm her down, to let her feel that this is real, that she’s here with her. That she’s here for her.
So it’s true. Mariana is here for her. And God knows Ana needs this. She’s crying again. Sobbing. Clawing at Mariana, wanting, no, needing to be as close as physically possible. Not out of sadness, not like earlier. Out of happiness. She’s so happy to see Mariana, to be in her arms, to have her in her arms. It’s almost too good to be true, and so yes, she appreciates the woman’s effort to convince her that this is indeed reality, they’re together. Right now.
Mariana lets out a breathless chuckle. “There was no way I could leave. Not after…” The confession. “I couldn’t stand the thought of being away from you. I just needed a few hours to take care of things. Please forgive me.”
“Of course,” Ana says without a second of hesitation. “I just can’t believe you’re here.” She slowly withdraws, feeling a sudden urge to look at Mariana. “I really want to hug you for the rest of the day.”
The woman cradles her face. “That’s perfect. But…” She looks down, away from Ana’s eyes. “Can I have a kiss, too?”
Ana smiles. For the first time since she thought she’d lost her love, she smiles. Brightly, like the sun. Radiating happiness. “Just one?” She leans up to peck Mariana’s lips.
The younger woman pretends to reflect upon what’s been said. “Mhm, I guess. Or they could be more. I’m not picky.”
“Well, señora Ana—I’ll leave you and señorita Mariana to it. Please make sure you eat.”
And, oh, God, she has forgotten that Altagracia has been standing there this whole time. She blushes. “Thanks, Alta. We will. Do you want to—”
The never-finished question is answered in an instant. “Absolutely. I will see you tomorrow, señora.” The housekeeper turns towards Mariana. “Señorita…” Then back. “Con permiso.”
Once Alta is out of the door, they look at each other. “So…” Ana trails off. “Pizza? I am actually starving.”
The younger woman hums as she puts her arm around Ana’s waist. “Sounds perfect.” She leans down to kiss her again, then leads her into the kitchen. Their laughter rings through the house. A house that, suddenly, is a lot cozier, a lot warmer, simply because Ana’s love has returned.