Bianca saw it, of course.
Bianca saw most things that involved Camila, had been seeing them since they were seventeen and had run into each other at a college orientation and found themselves talking for two hours about nothing and everything in the way of people who discover immediately that they speak the same language.
She said nothing for three weeks, which was, for Bianca, an extended period of restraint.
Then one evening in late January she was at the Intendente flat after they'd put Daniel to bed, and they were at the kitchen table with wine and the leftover pasta from dinner, and Bianca said: "You're in trouble."
Camila looked up. "With?"
Bianca just looked at her.
"No," Camila said.
"Mila—"
"I know what you're going to say and no."
"I haven't said anything yet."
"You wer
