Her eyes skim your face for a second too long. Not suspicion exactly. More like surveillance. You wonder how often she has studied you to see whether you knew.
Your mother takes the dessert box and heads to the kitchen. “Paula, help Lucía set the table in the dining room.”
Perfect.
You carry the silverware tray into the dining room while Paula follows with folded napkins. The late light through the windows paints the table gold. For a few moments, all you hear is the clink of utensils and the soft slide of plates over linen.
Then, keeping your voice casual, you say, “Did you talk to Álvaro today?”
Her hand pauses above a water glass.
“No. Why?”
You set down a fork. “No reason. He mentioned he’d been busy.”
Smooth. Quick. Controlled. If you had not known already, her performance might have convinced you. But you do know, so what stands out is not what she says but how carefully she says it.
You turn toward her. “You know what’s funny? I’ve been thinking lately about how strange it is when people can lie straight to your face and still expect you to smile at dinner.”
Her expression changes by the smallest degree.
“Lucía…”
You step closer.
“He forgot to delete your message.”
The silence that follows has edges.
Paula’s face loses color in ripples, not all at once. Her mouth opens, then closes. For a moment the room strips down to its bones, all pretense gone. What remains is not shame. It is fear.
“Listen to me,” she says.
“No,” you reply. “You listen to me. Everyone is coming in less than an hour, and I still haven’t decided whether I’m going to burn your life down before or after cake. So this would be a very smart time not to insult me with denial.”
Her eyes dart toward the kitchen.
“Not here.”
“Yes, here.”
She sets the napkins down carefully, as if sudden movement might trigger an explosion. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”
You laugh then. A short, incredulous sound that feels like broken glass.
“That sentence should be bronzed and hung in the Hall of Cowardice.”
“Lucía, please.”
“How long?”
She swallows. “A few months.”
You stare at her.
She looks away first.
“A few months,” you repeat. “And the money?”
Now she blinks. “What money?”
So she either truly doesn’t know or she is a better liar than even you gave her credit for. You step closer until she has nowhere to put her eyes but on you.
“There are transfers missing from our savings,” you say. “If that money funded hotel rooms, gifts, gas, anything, I promise you the affair will become the least interesting part of your night.”
“Lucía, I never asked him for money.”
Interesting. Not no money. Never asked him.
Before you can press harder, the front door opens and your father’s voice booms from the entryway. The house begins to fill. Your aunt. Your uncle. Your younger brother Mateo with his usual storm-front energy and his wife Claire carrying a salad no one requested but everyone will compliment. Your mother calls for someone to light the candles. The ordinary theater of family crowds into the room, and with it your window narrows.
Paula leans toward you, voice shaking now. “Please don’t do this tonight.”
You look at her for a long moment.
