Chapter 2 The Truth I Didn’t See
POV: Valeria Cruz
I don’t go back inside right away.
I should.
I know I should.
Because standing outside changes nothing.
Jason is still in there.
Camila is still in there.
And whatever I thought my life was ten minutes ago is still lying in pieces somewhere between the living room and my chest.
But I can’t move.
The night air is cooler now, or maybe I’m just shaking hard enough to feel everything differently. I wrap my arms around myself and stare out at the street, trying to slow my breathing before it gives me away.
A year.
I don’t even know if that’s true yet.
I don’t know anything.
All I know is what I saw.
And what I saw was enough.
The front door opens behind me.
I know who it is before he says my name.
“Valeria.”
Jason.
Of course.
I close my eyes for half a second.
Then turn.
He’s standing a few feet away, looking annoyed more than anything else. Not guilty. Not panicked. Not sorry.
Annoyed.
That hits harder than it should.
“What?” I ask.
My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Too calm. Too flat.
He exhales like I’m already making this difficult. “Can we not do this out here?”
I stare at him.
Because that’s the first thing he says.
Not I’m sorry.
Not You didn’t deserve that.
Not even a decent lie.
Just that.
“Do what?” I ask quietly.
“This.” He gestures vaguely between us, toward the door, toward the whole damn mess. “Make a scene.”
I laugh.
Actually laugh.
Because if I don’t, I might scream.
“A scene?” I repeat. “You kissed my best friend in the middle of your party, and I’m the one making a scene?”
His jaw tightens. “Lower your voice.”
There it is.
That need to control everything.
Even now.
Even after this.
“No.”
The word leaves my mouth before I can think twice about it.
Jason blinks.
Like I said something he didn’t expect to hear from me.
“Valeria,” he says, slower this time, like patience is some generous gift he’s offering, “you don’t understand what you saw.”
That almost knocks the air out of me.
Because he really believes that.
He really thinks if he says the words in the right order, I’ll step back into line and let him rewrite reality.
I fold my arms tighter across my chest. “Then explain it.”
He hesitates.
Just for a second.
And in that second, I know.
Because innocent people don’t pause.
Honest people don’t have to build a story from scratch.
“It just happened,” he says finally.
I stare at him.
“It just happened.”
“Yeah.”
“With Camila.”
He looks away briefly, annoyed now that I’m making him say it out loud. “It wasn’t planned.”
“Right,” I say. “You just accidentally had your hand on her waist and your mouth on hers.”
His eyes snap back to mine. “You’re being dramatic.”
That does it.
Something in me hardens.
Not loudly.
Not all at once.
But enough.
“No,” I say. “I’m reacting like a person who just got humiliated.”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “No one was trying to humiliate you.”
“No one?” I ask. “So this happened in private?”
He doesn’t answer.
Good.
Because there is no answer that helps him now.
Music pulses faintly from inside the house. People are still laughing. Still drinking. Still living their lives while mine feels like it just got dragged across broken glass.
“Why her?” I ask before I can stop myself.
The question hangs between us.
Jason’s expression shifts—not softer, just more irritated. “Does it matter?”
Does it matter.
Of course it matters.
It matters because she was mine before he ever was. Because she knew every insecurity I ever had, every dumb hope I kept alive, every single reason this would break me, and she did it anyway.
“Yes,” I say. “It matters.”
He looks away again. “It wasn’t supposed to turn into something.”
Turn into something.
My stomach twists.
“How long?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
I step closer. “How long, Jason?”
“Why are you doing this?”
The question is so ridiculous I almost don’t process it.
Then I do.
And I laugh again, but this time there’s nothing light in it.
“Why am I doing this?” I repeat. “You kissed my best friend.”
He folds his arms now, mirroring me without realizing it. Defensive. Closed off. Already trying to turn this into something he can survive without consequence.
“It wasn’t serious.”
And there it is.
The second blow.
I go still.
Not because the words surprise me.
Because they don’t.
Because if I’m being brutally honest, some part of me has been bracing for this for a while.
For the way he never held my hand in public.
For the way he acted different around his friends.
For the way I always felt like something he kept just slightly out of sight.
But hearing it?
That’s different.
“It wasn’t serious,” I repeat.
He shrugs, and I hate him for it.
“Come on, Valeria. We were fine.”
We were fine.
Like that should be enough.
Like fine is what I should have been grateful for.
I look at him—really look at him—and for the first time, I see exactly how much I’ve been lying to myself.
He was never mine the way I was his.
He was never all in.
He was never even close.
And maybe that should destroy me.
Maybe it will later.
But right now?
Right now it makes me angry.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “Decide what?”
“That we were fine. That this wasn’t serious. That I should stand out here and let you tell me what this meant.” I shake my head. “You don’t get to do that.”
He takes a step toward me. “So what, you’re just done?”
Yes.
The answer comes so fast, so clean, that it startles me.
Yes.
But saying it out loud still feels like stepping off something high without knowing if there’s ground underneath.
I swallow once. “I think you were done a long time ago.”
For the first time, something cracks across his expression.
Not regret.
Offense.
Like I’m the one being unfair now.
“That’s not what this is,” he says.
“Then what is it?”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Looks over my shoulder toward the house like maybe Camila will appear and rescue him from his own mess.
She doesn’t.
Good.
Because this is his.
This is his to wear.
And maybe that’s cruel of me.
Maybe I should walk away.
But after everything?
After what I saw?
No.
He can stand in it.
“You know what?” I say, voice quieter now. “Don’t answer.”
“Valeria—”
“No.” I step back. “You don’t get to explain this into something smaller.”
He looks at me like he still thinks this can be managed.
Fixed.
Tucked away.
I hate that.
“Go back inside,” I tell him.
His jaw tightens. “I’m trying to talk to you.”
“No,” I say. “You’re trying to make sure this doesn’t affect you.”
Silence.
Because he knows I’m right.
He knows that’s exactly what this is.
The thing about truth is that once it’s standing between you and someone, there’s no room left for pretending.
And there’s no pretending left in me.
I look past him, toward the front door, toward the house full of people who either know already or will by tomorrow.
I should feel embarrassed.
I should feel small.
Instead, all I feel is tired.
Tired of trying to fit myself into spaces that never really wanted me there.
Tired of being careful with people who were careless with me.
Tired of loving quietly.
“I’m leaving,” I say.
He laughs once under his breath, disbelieving. “You’re overreacting.”
I meet his eyes.
And something in me settles.
Maybe not peace.
Maybe not strength exactly.
But certainty.
“No,” I say. “I’m finally reacting the right amount.”
Then I turn and walk away.
He says my name once.
Sharp.
Annoyed.
Like he expects me to stop.
I don’t.
Because that’s the difference now.
Because whatever I was before this moment—
the girl who stayed, the girl who waited, the girl who would’ve turned around just to keep the peace
she’s gone.
And for the first time all night, I don’t feel shattered.
I feel clear.
Hurt, yes.
Humiliated, absolutely.
But clear.
Because sometimes the truth doesn’t break you.
Sometimes it burns away everything that was never real to begin with.
And as I walk away from Jason Reed without looking back, I know one thing for sure.
This is over.
Even if he doesn’t believe it yet.
Even if I haven’t figured out what comes next.
Even if tomorrow hurts worse.
This is over.
And I’m not going to beg for anything he never knew how to give.
