Chapter 3: Binge Prep

Prepping for Comfort

I finished my workout, hit the shower, and started pulling together snacks for our latest binge session. Fresh fruit, sliced cheese, wheat crackers, and flavored water—healthy enough to avoid guilt, satisfying enough to keep us happy while we vegetated on the couch.

Carla and I had been doing this forever. Since we were kids. These Sunday post-workout marathons were our routine, our anchor. Every week felt more necessary than the last.

She’d moved back in next door about a year ago. I’d been back longer—five years, ever since my dad died. Lung cancer. Afterward, I stuck around to help my mom through chemo. She survived, twice, and when she finally felt well enough to leave, she retired back home to Israel.

I missed her. We talked daily. But once Carla moved back, it was like my mom saw the shift and let go. She stopped nudging me about dating. Maybe she thought I wasn’t alone anymore.

She was right. Even if we didn’t call it that.

Grocery Bag Invasion

A knock on the door.

“Open up, slowpoke. I brought reinforcements.”

Carla stood there barefoot in a tank top, two grocery bags cradled in her arms, her hair damp, her grin teasing. That look meant trouble. Or joy. Usually both.

I pulled the door open.

“You’re still damp,” she said, looking me over. “Did you even towel off?”

“You were early.”

“You were slow,” she shot back, breezing past me into the kitchen. “And I wasn’t about to miss our marathon.”

We unloaded in rhythm—protein bars, popcorn, fruit, energy drinks. She moved through my kitchen like it was hers. She knew every drawer. She’d rearranged my spice rack. Bullied me into better knives. She owned the place more than I did.

I adjusted pillows in the living room while she raided the fridge.

“You want me to put this leftover curry away or is it breakfast?”

“Fridge, por favor. I’m not ready for another spice challenge at eight a.m.”

She laughed. “Coward.”

Crush Reveal

We took our usual positions on the sectional—me against the armrest, Carla stretched out sideways, her feet tucked under my thigh. Warm. Familiar. Dangerous.

Halfway through the second episode, she nudged me with her heel.

“Yenni dropped by yesterday. Brought empanadas.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“She and Mama spent all afternoon gossiping in the kitchen. I think Yenni just wanted an excuse to snoop.”

“Snoop?”

Carla’s smile turned sly. “About you.”

I groaned. “What did I do now?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem. You keep being charming without noticing it. Yenni’s had a low-grade crush on you for, like, a decade.”

I blinked. “She’s just a kid.”

Carla snorted. “She’s twenty-eight, tiene su propio apartamento, and works full time with Mama. Don’t let that baby face fool you—girl’s got her own set of moves.”

I shifted. Carla noticed, and her tone softened.

“I’m not saying do anything. I just want you to know ... she’s been watching you. For years. Back when Madelyn and I used to bring her over? She remembers everything.”

I scratched the back of my neck. “Madelyn never liked me much.”

“She didn’t like anyone Flora—sorry, Yenni—got close to. She was territorial. You, me, even Mama. And when Yenni got old enough to stop tagging along, she stayed close to Mama instead. They bake together, talk work, bond over cleaning crews and telenovelas.”

I nodded slowly. “Hard to believe she was just a moody kid when we were in high school.”

Carla chuckled. “Moody and hormonal. You showing up in gym clothes? Major event for her. She once told Mama she made excuses to spy on you from the hallway.”

My eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious.”

I exhaled. “Now I feel weird.”

“No te preocupes. She was a teenager with a crush. But...” Carla paused, eyes flicking to me. “Those things don’t vanish overnight.”

Unspoken Threads

I looked down at my hands. “I used to feel it. Like ... someone was always watching.”

“You weren’t wrong,” Carla murmured, reaching for a cracker.

We both stared at the screen, but neither of us was really watching.

The silence stretched—comfortable but charged. There was history here, ghosts of feelings no one wanted to name. I wasn’t sure if I should feel flattered or nervous.

Maybe both.

And even though I didn’t say it out loud, one thought pulsed through me:

If Carla knew all that ... how long had she been watching, too?