Rebeca notices it too.
She follows your gaze across the courthouse steps, then back to the phone in your hand, then to the line of traffic inching forward in the heat. “Who is coming?” she asks, lower now, no longer irritated, just alert. You do not answer immediately because the truth is still too sharp to say aloud, and because some revelations deserve one more second inside your own chest before they become public property.
Julián starts walking toward you.
His mother catches his sleeve first, maybe to tell him to leave it alone, maybe to remind him that public dignity matters more than private rage. But he shakes her off with the same smooth impatience he used to reserve for waiters and junior accountants. His girlfriend, the red-nailed woman who had been hanging on his arm like a trophy with a pulse, takes one uncertain step back.
He crosses the street without looking for traffic.
That is how men like him move through the world once they’ve convinced themselves everything belongs to them if they reach fast enough. His jaw is tight now, the triumphant glow gone from his face, replaced by something uglier and far less stable. By the time he reaches the bottom step, the courthouse performance has already started to crack.
“What’s in the envelope?” he asks.
No greeting. No attempt at charm. No pretending this is still the kind of divorce where both people leave with clean legal edges and only the usual blood under the paperwork. You glance at the manila fold between your fingers, then back at him, and for one terrible delicious moment you realize he is afraid of paper.
