Page 34 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
“Thanks for coming,” she says, bumping her shoulder against mine. “I know this isn’t really your scene.”
“The house is really spectacular,” I add again, feeling like I’m sounding repetitive. I look back through the glass doors at the golden light spilling across the hardwood floors, the laughter, the champagne tower. “Everything is perfect.”
Camila huffs out a breath that fogs in the cold. “And yet here you are, hiding from it.”
“Did I tell you it’s the first year I’ve spent the holidays here? We went back to Argentina every single year since we moved.”
“Really?” Camila replies, cocking her head. I know she knows I’m avoiding the topic. She’s definitely waiting for me to say it first. She’s normally pushy, incredibly kick-ass in herprofessional and personal lives but definitely the voice of reason in our group.
“Just say it.” I look down into my glass, watch the bubbles fizz and fade.
Camila arches an eyebrow. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Camila.”
“Fine. I was right and you were wrong and now you’re moping around because you got dicked down good on vacation and want more. Am I close?”
“It’s not just a good fuck.”
She rolls her eyes. “Agreatfuck then.”
“Camila.”
“Just call him. What’s the big deal? You can fly out to see him at any point.”
The pop of fireworks starts and there’s a few celebratory whoops heard in the distance, somewhere behind us.
“It’s the first time in a long time that I didn’t even try hard. I could just… be. And now everything feels louder again. Like I came back to a life that doesn’t fit me, even though the life I had before didn’t fit me either.”
Camila doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
I glance at her.
She shrugs. “Sometimes we outgrow what fits. Doesn’t mean you can’t find something better.”
Those words settle under my ribs.
“He lives here.”
Camila blinks a few times, then another one in slow motion just for the theatrics of it. Finally, she gasps, hand flying to her chest like I just confessed to having an affair with a B-list celebrity. “¿Qué?” She’s loud outside her house, and I feel mycheeks heat. “He lives here. As inNew Yorkhere? How have you buried the lede this hard?”
I can’t help but laugh so I don’t cry, and something tightens in my throat. “You make it sound like I’ve been harboring classified information.”
“Because you have!” she says, clutching her champagne flute like it’s part of her performance. “Sol, god,this is fate. You’re both in the same city. You could literally run into him on the subway, or—god forbid—at the bodega down the street.”
I shake my head, half smiling, half trying not to fall apart. “It’s not fate, Camila. It’s just bad luck wrapped in good timing. And also, he’s too young for me.”
Her expression softens. “You don’t believe that.”
The city hums beyond us—car horns, laughter, the faint echo of popping fireworks elsewhere. I grip the edge of the railing, the metal cold against my fingers. “I was just getting used to the idea of being alone again. And now he’s everywhere. The smell of my sunscreen, a Santa hat, a stupid mojito. He’severywhere.”
Camila studies me quietly, her voice gentler now. “Sounds like you’re not done with him.”
For the first time since I got back five days ago, I let myself fully imagine what it would feel like to see him again—not on a beach or half-drunk under fairy lights, but here. In the city where my life happens.
CHAPTER 18
BEN
