It was already close to noon when I came back from my father's house.
I'd gone only to grab a few clothes, but I ended up staying longer than I meant to. Rosa talked to me like someone trying to hold another person in place with conversation alone. She asked about Vicente the whole time, anxious, repeating whether he was badly hurt, whether the cut had opened, whether he was behaving.
— He doesn't know how to stop — she said. — He never has.
I told her everything was under control. I wasn't sure I believed that myself.
Luckily, just as I was leaving, Rosa showed up with a bag in her hands. Inside, tightly sealed containers, still warm.
— So you won't have to cook — she said, pushing the bag toward me. — At least today.
I thanked her, relieved.
When I stepped into the shop, the usual noise greeted me. Vicente was watching over the workers, paying attention to every detail. Val and the other guy were hurrying through the final adjustments on my father's car, which already looked almost flawless again. It shone in a way that made the crash seem like a distant thing.
I walked straight past, making sure Vicente was only giving instructions.
I went into the house and straight to the kitchen, already opening the containers, setting everything on the table without thinking much. Rice, meat, vegetables. Simple food, but well made.
A few minutes later, Vicente came in, drying his hands on an old towel.
— Sit — I said, pointing at the table before he could say anything.
He obeyed. Lowered his eyes, like he knew there was no point arguing.
When I sat down, he said, too casually:
— You could go to your dad's place while I'm gone. You'll get bored here alone.
I looked at him.
— I just got back from there.
Then I took a deep breath.
— Vicente… at least wait for that cut to close properly before going out.
He didn't answer. He just changed the subject.
— When I get back, we can watch a movie. You can pick any one.
I didn't respond.
He tried again, commented on the heat, how stuffy the day was. I stayed silent. He knew that look of mine well… the one that came when I was upset and didn't want to fight.
So he didn't push it.
He finished eating, stood up, and went to the bedroom. Came back with his backpack slung over one shoulder.
— I'll be right back — he said quickly.
The door closed behind him.
A few seconds later, it opened again.
— Forgot my phone — he said, coming in in a hurry. — It was charging.
He walked toward the TV shelf without even really looking at me.
It was the exact moment.
As soon as he bent down to unplug the cable, my body reacted before my head.
I jumped up on impulse and went to the shop.
Val and the other worker were sitting, dozing in oil-stained chairs, the radio too low to wake anyone. The car was there, unlocked.
I didn't think.
I opened the back door, crouched down, and slid onto the floor of the back seat, cramped, pulling my knees to my chest. I moved so fast I didn't even notice I was still barefoot. My dress clung lightly to my skin from the heat.
My heart was pounding way too loud.
I knew I was being impulsive. I knew he'd told me not to push it. But I also knew that if he really was going to risk himself again, I wouldn't be able to sit still and wait.
I held my breath.
Stayed completely still and waited.
Vicente got in. The front seat sank under his weight, he tossed his phone onto the dashboard and started the engine like he was running late. He didn't look back, didn't suspect a thing.
The radio came on with the car.
Some random song started playing, one of those that fill the silence but say nothing, and he didn't seem to hear it. One hand firm on the wheel, his gaze too focused for someone who was just going to handle something quick.
The floor of the back seat was uncomfortable, hard. I stayed curled up, trying to make as little noise as possible. Every speed bump made my body shake. I held my breath more times than I could count.
After a few minutes, he pulled over.
I heard another door open. A male voice, low… just a few words. I couldn't understand anything. I only saw, through a narrow gap, Vicente extend his hand and receive something small, wrapped in brown paper. It didn't look heavy. He tucked it away quickly, slid it into his backpack like he didn't want to draw attention.
The car started moving again, went a few meters…
That's when his hand tightened on the steering wheel. The radio was shut off roughly. Vicente accelerated a little.
He took the first corner too fast. The second even faster.
My heart started beating out of rhythm.
The car picked up speed… sharp turns… sudden lane changes. I held on however I could, my hands slipping on the carpet, my body thrown from side to side.
This wasn't normal.
Fear rose sharp and sudden.
I couldn't take it anymore.
I braced myself against the front seat and pushed myself up, my whole body trembling.
— Vicente… — my voice came out thin, scared.
He looked in the rearview mirror.
Shock came first. Then fury.
— WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?! — he snarled, without taking his eyes off the road.
— I… — I couldn't finish.
— Melissa, are you insane?! — he snapped. — Get up front, now! Put your seatbelt on.
I didn't argue.
I scrambled as best I could, sitting in the front seat while he took another sharp turn. My hands were shaking so badly I almost couldn't fasten the belt.
— Hold on — he ordered.
I did.
I saw a car behind us get too close. Vicente accelerated more… the engine responded fast, aggressive. He turned onto a narrow street, then another, then another. Every move felt too precise to be improvised.
My stomach churned.
In one last abrupt motion, he turned into a side street, cut the headlights for endless seconds, and braked suddenly.
Silence.
We waited.
The other car went straight past.
Vicente stayed still, breathing hard, his fingers still white with force on the steering wheel.
Then he started the car again and drove on, slower now.
— I told you I had to go alone — he said, his voice hard, without looking at me.
I didn't answer.
The fear was still too big for any words.
And in that moment, I understood I had crossed a line I didn't even know existed.