Chapter 4 — First Fight
1483 Words
By ten in the morning, Valeria had decided the photograph was not coming to work with her.
It was in the locked drawer of her desk at home, face down beneath a folder she had no reason to keep there.
That should have settled it.
Instead, she had spent the entire drive to the office thinking about the same image.
The treehouse.
Her own handwriting on the back.
And the fact that the woman in the photograph looked like her without feeling entirely like her.
She was still trying to force the memory into place when Alejandro appeared at the end of the corridor.
He stopped when he saw her.
Not dramatically. Not like a man surprised to discover her there.
He simply stopped.
That bothered her more.
"You're avoiding me."
His expression tightened. "I'm giving you space."
"I didn't ask for space."
"You didn't ask for anything."
"Exactly."
A pair of employees passed behind them, carrying folders and talking about a morning meeting. Valeria waited until they were out of earshot.
Then she said, "You knew me before."
Alejandro didn't pretend not to understand.
"I've already told you that."
"No. You told me we've met."
"We have."
"You've been choosing your words."
"I've been trying not to make this worse."
"That isn't your decision."
"No."
His answer came quickly enough to stop her.
Valeria folded her arms.
"Then tell me what happened."
Alejandro glanced toward the conference rooms.
"Not here."
"Convenient."
"Valeria—"
"No." She stepped closer. "You don't get to keep saying my name like that and then disappear behind whatever promise you've made yourself."
His jaw worked once.
"What promise?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"I know you think I do."
She stared at him.
That was the problem with Alejandro. Every answer seemed to contain another locked door.
"You remember the lake house."
His silence confirmed it.
"You remember the treehouse."
Another pause.
"And you remember me."
"Yes."
The word landed harder than she expected.
She had spent the past three chapters trying to decide whether his familiarity was coincidence, manipulation, or something her own damaged memory had distorted.
He had just removed one possibility.
He remembered.
All of it, or enough of it.
"How long?" she asked.
"Valeria."
"How long have you remembered me?"
"I never forgot you."
The corridor seemed suddenly too bright.
She looked away first, toward the glass wall of the conference room.
"That's not what I asked."
"I know."
"Then answer me."
Alejandro lowered his voice.
"I remember the lake house. I remember the summer. I remember what happened before you left."
The last sentence made her turn back.
"Before I left?"
"Yes."
"That's how you describe it?"
"I wasn't the one who decided you had to go."
Her stomach tightened.
"Who was?"
His eyes held hers.
"I can't tell you that."
"Can't?"
"I shouldn't."
"Those are different words."
"I know."
She gave a short, humorless laugh.
"You're very good at that."
"At what?"
"Making a person feel like they're standing outside their own life."
Something in his face changed.
Not anger.
Recognition.
As though she had finally said the one thing he had been afraid she would.
"You think I don't understand that?"
"I think you know more than you're telling me."
"I do."
The honesty disarmed her.
For several seconds neither moved.
Then Valeria said, "So tell me."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because you don't remember what happened."
"Exactly. So I'm the one person who needs the truth."
"I know."
"Then why won't you give it to me?"
"Because I promised."
"To whom?"
He looked away.
There it was again.
The wall.
Valeria stepped back.
"Of course."
"I made the promise because I thought it was the only way to keep you safe."
She stopped.
"Safe from what?"
Alejandro didn't answer.
She waited.
Nothing.
Her frustration finally broke through the careful control she had been forcing on herself since the photograph arrived.
"Do you hear yourself?"
"Yes."
"You keep telling me people were trying to protect me. You keep acting like there was some terrible thing I was too young to understand. But nobody seems interested in telling me what the terrible thing was."
"It wasn't that simple."
"Then make it simple."
"I can't."
"Or you won't."
His expression hardened.
"Those aren't the same thing."
"They are when you're the person being kept in the dark."
A door opened somewhere behind them.
Neither looked.
Alejandro lowered his voice further.
"I should have been there."
Valeria blinked.
"For what?"
"When they told you to leave."
The words stripped the anger from her face.
"What?"
"I should have been there."
"When they told me to leave?"
"Yes."
"Why weren't you?"
His gaze dropped briefly to the floor.
"I thought I had more time."
"Time for what?"
"To fix it."
She studied him.
There was no performance in his voice now.
No polished executive composure. No carefully measured response.
Just regret.
"You knew they were going to take me away?"
"I knew something was happening."
"How much did you know?"
"Not enough."
"And you still let me go."
"I didn't let you go."
"Then where were you?"
"I was trying to get back."
"Trying isn't the same as being there."
"I know."
His answer came quietly.
That made her angrier.
She wanted him to defend himself. She wanted an excuse she could reject.
Instead, he accepted every accusation as though he had been carrying them for years.
"You could have come after me."
"I tried."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Did you?"
"Yes."
"How?"
He stopped.
Whatever answer had been forming disappeared.
Valeria caught it.
"You can't even tell me that."
"Not yet."
"Not yet."
She repeated the words as if testing how much she hated them.
"Do you know what it's like to wake up and find out there are pieces of your own life you can't reach?"
"Yes."
The answer was so immediate that she forgot to breathe for a second.
"You don't know what I've forgotten."
"No."
"But you know what I lost."
Alejandro looked at her.
"I know what I lost."
There it was.
Not you lost.
I lost.
Valeria felt the distinction before she could explain it.
She turned away.
The photograph at home suddenly seemed heavier than it had that morning.
"You should have told me."
"I wanted to."
"When?"
"Every time I saw you."
"Then why didn't you?"
"Because every time I saw you, I remembered why I promised not to."
"To stay away?"
"Yes."
"Who made you promise?"
His expression closed again.
She almost laughed.
"Right."
"Valeria, listen to me."
"No. You listen."
She faced him.
"If someone took me away from you, then whatever happened wasn't something I chose."
"I know."
"If you tried to find me, then I need to know."
"I know."
"And if you remember me, then stop looking at me like I'm a stranger."
That one hurt him.
She saw it.
Not because he flinched.
Because he stopped pretending the conversation was merely about her questions.
"I have never looked at you like a stranger."
"Then what do you look at me like?"
He didn't answer immediately.
His eyes moved over her face with an old familiarity she couldn't place.
"When I look at you," he said, "I remember the person I failed."
Valeria's anger faltered.
"Failed?"
"I wasn't there when they came for you."
He swallowed.
"I should have been."
She wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault.
She didn't.
Not yet.
Because she didn't know what had happened.
And because some part of her—small, stubborn, frightened—believed that if she forgave him too quickly, she would lose the right to ask the next question.
So she said, "I don't know what you did."
"I know."
"I don't know what they did."
"I know."
"I don't even know who they are."
His eyes met hers.
"Neither do you."
The answer was not reassurance.
It was a warning.
A receptionist called Alejandro's name from the far end of the corridor.
He turned slightly.
Valeria watched him prepare to leave.
"One more thing."
He stopped.
"Did I love you?"
He went completely still.
The question had escaped before she could soften it.
Alejandro looked back at her.
He could have answered.
She saw that.
Whatever truth lived behind his expression, he knew it.
But he didn't give it to her.
Instead he said, "You should be the one who remembers that."
Then he walked away.
Valeria remained in the corridor long after he disappeared around the corner.
The argument had begun with a photograph.
It ended with something far more dangerous.
Alejandro had not simply remembered her.
He had been carrying guilt over losing her.
And whatever had happened between them, he had never considered it his choice.
That meant one thing she could no longer ignore.
Their separation had a history.
And Alejandro was still living inside it.
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