Valentina’s eyes came back to me one last time. In them, for the first time in my life, I saw not superiority or heartbreak, but emptiness. She had built herself around comparison for so long that when the contest collapsed, there was nothing underneath sturdy enough to keep her standing.
“You always make people choose you,” she said.
I almost smiled, not because it was funny, but because it was the oldest lie she had ever told.
“No,” I said. “I finally stopped helping them choose you.”
She left then.
Not dragged.
Not chased.
She walked out through the side gate with her spine rigid and her face burning, and the garden held its breath until the latch clicked shut behind her.
The silence after she left was unlike the silence before.
Before, it had been fear.
Now it was aftermath.
The officiant, who had wisely said nothing through the storm, looked at Diego and me with gentle caution.
“We can stop,” she said. “You do not owe anyone a ceremony today.”
Diego turned to me.
“We can leave,” he said softly. “We can get in the car right now and disappear for a week. We can do this another day. I mean it.”